CHAPTER 14

As it happened, Beulah was also, if not exactly Jubal’s and Sosi’s teacher, their supervisor when they did their lessons on the ship’s computer. In addition to the basics, they took a very broad course called Galactic Studies that gave them an overview of the history, population distributions, and geographies of the known settled worlds and moons.

Sosi was bored with the whole thing, but not Jubal. Now that it looked like he was going to have a chance to see some of these places, at least from a distance, he scanned the charts with new interest.

He recalled the lessons he’d already had on the subject when he was back home on Sherwood. The galaxy had been settled in waves by the governments and companies from old Earth. The six main reasons the Founders began their Intergalactic Expansion program were:

The Galactic Government, or GG, controlled all of the planets, moons, and space stations in the galaxy. Galipolis, the most galipolitan world of them all, was the hub of company and governmental affairs. Everyone said you could find fantastic stuff in Galipolis not seen anywhere else. Traffic from all over kept the space around Galipolis way busier than Hood Station at festival time.

Jubal couldn’t wait to see it.

Jared had looked Varley’s gift horses in the mouth. Since ascertaining that the glittery residue in the secretions and excretions of the horses—as well as the other animals exhibiting the same phenomenon—were simply the result of ingesting the shiny beetles, and not the symptom of a disease, Jared gave the horses a clean bill of health. Varley sold them.

If he’d sold them to another rancher on Sherwood, things would have been fine for a while longer, but he sold them offworld to a man who was unlucky in his neighbors and in his veterinarian.

The first Jared heard of it was a call from Varley.

“You said those wild pintos were healthy,” the rancher said accusingly.

“They were,” Jared replied evenly, though he had been up half the night operating on a dog who got into a fight with a forklift. “Is there a problem?”

“You’ll find out about it soon enough. I sold them to the son of my old friend Trudeau, who just died. His son inherited his place. I only got enough to cover the shipping costs. Trudeau didn’t leave a lot of money so I sent the boy the pintos at cost to start a new herd, help get him on his feet. Unfortunately, the Trudeau property abuts a spread owned by the nephew of the secretary of agriculture for the area.

“One of the pintos jumped the fence and on the orders of the secretary’s nephew was shot for trespassing. Young Trudeau, the damn fool, made a fuss, and the local vet—who’s in the nephew’s pocket—did an autopsy and claims to have found something wrong with the horse’s corpse.”

Jared, remembering the gentle and intelligent pintos mooching food during his picnic with Janina, felt a sick sadness in the pit of his stomach for the horse, as well as apprehension. “Those animals were perfectly healthy when they left the station,” he told Varley.

“They’ve called in the GG’s epidemiologists,” the rancher said.

“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Jared said.

“Yeah, well, I imagine they’re planning to surprise you. Trudeau warned me that they’re on their way here, to investigate my stock and land for this contamination they claim to have found. I expect you to back me up on this, Jared.”

Jared said, “Of course.” But he had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

If the GG epidemiologists decided he had failed to report or overlooked a universal health threat, it would probably mean they’d revoke his license, or at best, demote him and move him to a lesser position on a new post. For Varley and other affected stockmen, it would destroy their livelihoods and probably the lives of all of their animals, both those affected and not.

To Varley, he added, “I don’t think they’ve a leg to stand on, actually. I’ve done autopsies myself on animals with the glitter in their secretions—sorry, there’s no impressive-sounding name for it. The glitter is just a by-product from ingesting those little iridescent insects we have around here. From the evidence I’ve seen, both the insects and their effects are nontoxic. Had I ever had a clue that the insects were harmful, I certainly would have alerted you earlier myself and I certainly would not have allowed your horses to leave Sherwood, much less the station.”

“Yeah, well, I suppose I knew that. If anyone is toxic, it’s the politicians and officials involved. I may have to put down a few of them myself before this is over.”

Jared grunted agreement and signed off.

The Galactic Health Authority contacted him barely two hours later demanding that he submit his records for Varley’s animals and any others affected with the “fairy dust” syndrome. He told them about the insects and started to explain about the results of his own autopsies when the official cut in: “An impound order is being issued for all animals in the affected area and any beasts they may have come in contact with. A decontamination team is on its way, and the GHA expects your full cooperation with them in this matter, Dr. Vlast.”

The Galactic Government, as ponderously slow as a planet’s rotation around its sun when it came to responding to requests for assistance from its citizens, was moving with what was for them lightning speed. Apparently, from their viewpoint, a manufactured public health crisis was much easier to deal with than a real threat.

He commed Varley but got no response. He wanted to warn the rancher, but realized he’d be foolish to leave any sort of a trail implicating either one of them. He also realized, to his surprise, that he had already decided to disobey Varley’s orders.

It wasn’t until he had made the trip to the surface, located the rancher, and conveyed his message, that he realized just how firmly he intended to resist the role the government was assigning him in this crisis. Varley swore that he would inform the neighbors and they’d take whatever steps they could.

Jared returned to the station. It would be up to him, he realized, to notify any of the ships that had docked at Hood Station that their animals were to be impounded. Including ships’ cats. And the next time the Molly Daise docked, someone would inform them that their animals must also be impounded. Including Janina’s beloved Chessie and her kitten.

CHESTER ABOARD THE MOLLY DAISE

Three more watches, three more haunted catnaps later, and my rest was disturbed on that fateful occasion when Captain Vesey called Kibble to the bridge. Mother and I were at her heels and under her feet as she hastened to obey her commander. “Looks like we’ll be launching a rescue mission,” he told her. “But you’re the one who will need to go, so I’d like to consult you about whether or not we respond. As you can see, the COB sign, with that cat outline on it, deviates somewhat from the galactic regulation notification. What do you think?”

A dark and drifting ship loomed in the viewport. The Molly Daise’s running lights illuminated it. On the bow was the familiar glowing paint with the universal COB letters, in addition to a simple black line drawing of a cat sitting upright. The writing was the picture writing from my dream. I was certain that this was the ship containing the cat who had been intruding on my naps.

“I don’t recognize it, sir,” Kibble told the captain, “but the sign is clear enough, even if someone did add fanciful artwork and the ship does look derelict. No answer to your hails, I presume?”

He shook his head. “None. It’s quiet as a tomb. You’ve not had to do this before, Janina. Perhaps we should just notify the Galactic Guard of its position and give it a miss.”

“Sir, by the time the Guard reached it, a cat survivor might have died slowly from lack of oxygen. I’ve not done it but I have been trained to do it. Being a Cat Person isn’t all food dishes and litter boxes, you know.”

“I know. Do you want to take backup?”

“Hmmm—well, they say in training to take your own ship’s cat to help locate the survivor or—well, what would have been the survivor. I was issued a cat-sized adjustable pressure suit and helmet with olfactory amplifiers so the cat could still smell. But only one. They gave me a life-support carrier for the stranded cat. Chester is inexperienced and Chessie is—”

I climbed her trouser leg. “Me! Me!” I cried. “Let me go! I know what’s there! I dreamed it.” I knew no one would understand me, but since I was only about ten inches long, exclusive of my tail, I felt I needed to make a great deal of noise to get noticed and I might as well give them a real piece of my mind.

“No, Chester, you’re too young,” Mother said, since of course she did understand. I could tell however that she didn’t really want to go. Once she’d returned to her ship after her ordeal dirtside on Sherwood, she never wanted to leave it again. Still she protested, “I am the Molly Daise’s official cat. I am the one who must go.”

I ignored her and continued to climb Kibble.

“I think you have a volunteer,” Captain Vesey told her, laughing.

“I don’t know. He’s just a baby, sir.”

“Yes, but he’s learning and is nimble and fast on his feet, whereas our Chessie is getting on in years. He’s smaller too, and you never know when that might come in handy in this sort of situation.”

He’s also been dreaming with the cat on the ship, you aggravating people, I thought at them. Now let’s get out there and see what that cat has to say for himself.

I knew I had won when Kibble picked me up and carried me with her to the shuttle bay. On the way she picked up a packet of my favorite fishie treats, a large bag of cat food, an old-fashioned rattling can opener, and a bizarre-shaped object that turned out, to my disgust, to be a suit and helmet meant for me.

She put it on me, leaving off only the helmet, saying, “You have to, Chester. I have to, too. We can’t live in space or in a ship with depleted oxygen without our survival suits.” While she readied the shuttle, I tried to get used to the suit. Under normal circumstances I would have expressed my displeasure in graphic and disruptive ways that she would find convincing, to say the least, but I desperately wanted—for reasons I did not understand—to accompany her on this mission. The mission included the stupid suit, so instead of spending my time protesting, I practiced moving in it. It was surprisingly flexible, though I couldn’t manage much of a tail lash in it.

And there was always that packet of fishie treats Kibble carried with us. Perhaps they were to be my reward for a mission accomplished? I could hope.

Kibble picked me up and tried to stick me in her pouch but I slipped out of her grasp. This was the first time I’d ridden in a small craft in open space and I wanted to see.

“No, Chester, don’t stand on the instruments,” she scolded when I jumped onto the control panel to look through the viewport at the stars and the derelict ship. I jumped back onto her lap but the slip-periness of our suits dumped me off onto the deck. I tried to wash my paw to show that I didn’t care, that the fall was only part of my master plan, but I got only a tongueful of odorless, tasteless shipsuit.

Once more she lifted me, and this time I allowed her to put me in the pouch on the front of her suit, but kept my front paws on the opening and stuck my head out to watch.

Having fixed the ship and stars in my mind, I turned my attention to Kibble’s hands, which moved over the controls with a bit of hesitation but seemed to be doing the right thing. I hadn’t known she could fly, but then lots of humans on Sherwood seemed to be able to, and as I watched her, I realized suddenly why everyone got in such a lather over me romping across the control panels. Graphs shifted and changed colors and made the shuttle move and make noises with the merest touch on her part, more sensitive than a baby mouse under Mother’s paws. That was good to know.

The derelict ship was very close to ours, held in place by the Molly Daise’s tractor beam.

“Initiate docking procedure,” Indu’s voice told her. “Breaking and Entering Docking Protocol engaged.”

Resuming my pouch-perch topside, I saw the side of the derelict slide open, leaving a great gaping dark square hole, like an open mouth waiting to eat us. And for just a moment I saw, as if beneath a ship-shaped veil, the pyramid vessel I had dreamed during my last nap. Then the veil fell back and our shuttle—quite stupidly, I thought—sailed into the open maw.

I must have given an involuntary hiss because Kibble put a hand on my neck and said, “Shhh, Chester, it’s okay. We can’t very well rescue the other cat if we don’t board his ship, can we?”

It seemed to me that with all of their clever little tricks and technologies, the humans might have come up with some strategy less risky to limb and tail, and I gave her a withering look to convey this attitude, but she was staring ahead and missed the whole thing.

I began to wonder why I had been so keen to come on this mission. That package of fishie treats looked increasingly appealing, and all this excitement had worn me out. I was ready for another nap, just as she seemed about ready to go. Maybe I would just curl up inside the pouch and—

“Time to work, Chester,” Kibble said. “Let’s hook you up and put on your helmet and go see if we can save the other cat. I’m counting on you to help me find him, so try to behave yourself for a change.”

For a change? Why, I had bored myself to snores trying to “behave” according to what these people wanted until I could find my boy! I hadn’t demanded adoration for my concessions, but a little credit would have been nice.

I soon realized I had underestimated Kibble’s cunning and cruelty. She had made sure my paws and claws were encased in the padded shipsuit before forcing the horrible helmet over my head. I knew what it was—she had already put one on her own head, just like it, except that mine had two pointy triangles at the top. Once the helmet was over my head, my flattened ears popped up into the triangular places. A soothing hiss of oxygen filled my nostrils from the hose attaching our suits even before she locked the helmet in place, but I couldn’t help trying to paw the thing off, for fear I’d smother.

“Chester, settle down. Trust me, little one, you don’t want to be cut off from my hose. Now then, we’re going to leave the shuttle and go hunt for the other cat. I’ve my gravity boots to keep me grounded, but you will be floating in zero g once we get outside. Please don’t try to run away, baby cat. If this hose comes apart, you may not have enough oxygen in your suit to last until I can hook us back up.”

I heard her quite well in spite of the helmet, and I could still smell the inside of the shuttle as well, though her scent was cut off by her shipsuit. The noise of the Molly Daise’s bridge on an open channel buzzed in the background. The shuttle’s hatch opened and Kibble picked me up and carried me out. Once she let go of me, I was airborne!

This time it did not frighten me. After my recent dance across the buttons that controlled the gravity on the Molly Daise, once Kibble and Mother got over being angry, we had flying lessons in the training chamber. Mother said that no kit of hers was going to be afraid of weightlessness.

I meowed loudly and tumbled over three times in midair as my voice filled my own quite sensitive ears trapped in their pointy helmeted casings. “Other cat? Where are you?”

You seek my wisdom and protection, my son? a deep voice inquired in my head.

We seek your furry tail so we can save you and get us all out of this rat warren! I replied, not bothering to use words of feline language at this point. Our actual spoken vocabulary is diminished if we can’t use the eloquence of our bodies for punctuation, extended explication, and emphasis.

“Have you got the scent, Chester? Have you?” Kibble asked. From the pouch, she pulled the can opener and the bag of fishie treats.

That was easy, I thought, using my front paws for propulsion and my tail as a rudder as I dived toward the treats in her hand. I knocked them out of her hand and into free-fall, but I couldn’t retrieve them because I had nothing with which to grab them, as I discovered when my faceplate hit the package and sent it soaring upward out of my reach. I’d forgotten about the wretched helmet. I wailed at the injustice of it, the awful cruelty of her taunting me with treats. But she, oblivious, snatched the treats out of the air and rattled a can opener in her other hand. Now I understood: the sound was a lure for the stranded cat.

“Kitty kitty?” she called. Rattle rattle.

Hark! Do mine ears detect the sound of the sacred sistrum of sustenance? the other cat asked. At the same time, my amplified ears heard a miau, faint, as if far away.

No, it’s just a can opener, I told the cat.

Yes, that. And is there—perchance—a can or container of some sort for it to work its magic upon? I have had no food for weeks, months, years even!

Should I tell him about the fishie treats? I wondered, as their significance to Kibble became clear to me. Alas, they were not for me but a bribe for him. I was sure of it. Otherwise, why would she have withheld them from me aboard the shuttle when she knew I loved them? They should by rights be my fishie treats. The strange cat claimed to be starving, and he might fool Kibble with his piteous complaints, but I am a cat. I know what starving means when we speak of it to someone with food. It means we want that food and will say whatever it takes to get it. His lies would not work on another cat. On the other hand, there were lots more fishie treats back on the Molly Daise, and if we collected this old feline and returned to a crew grateful to be on its way and proud of Kibble and me for completing our mission, I could probably cadge so many treats I wouldn’t be able to follow Mother into the tighter service passages for a while.

I’ll share if you’ll guide me to you, I told him.

The passage will lead you to no one else, he replied.

So I led us forward.

However, a short distance beyond the docking bay, we met a blank bulkhead with no way a human could go but back the way she came.

What passage?

Then I saw a ramp running along one side of the large corridor from the deck to what was debatably the overhead. Swimming toward it, I saw a hole in the bulkhead, just big enough for a cat.

You’ll have to come out, I told the other cat. My human can’t get in to bring you the food.

You can bring it.

No, I can’t. I can’t carry it.

Find a way. And be certain, young one, that there is enough left to assuage the hunger of a famished elder when you reach me.

I then engaged in one of the charades I found it necessary to play with most humans in order to convey the simplest instructions. I dived for the treat packet again, bumping Kibble’s hand, but she had been watching me, and this time she held onto the prize.

Shaking her head inside the helmet, which moved very little, she said, “No, Chester. The treats are for the other cat.”

To emphasize his hunger and helplessness, the wily elder mewed pathetically from within the cat-sized passage, which magnified his voice and sent it echoing through the chamber where we stood wasting time.

I pawed at the food again, then started up, swam toward the hole, pushed off the bulkhead with my back paws, and repeated my assault on the fishie treats.

“That isn’t going to work, Chester. The poor lost cat doubtlessly has found an air pocket to hide in—some ships even have an onboard lifepod for the cat. This one is very odd, I must say. Once you located him, I was hoping to get close enough to use the treats to lure him into the life pouch. It will allow him to survive the airless conditions inside the rest of the ship. If he is too far for me to reach, by the time he comes out, he’ll have suffocated, and if you go farther than the hose will reach, little one, you too will die.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. It was good that although she had no telepathic link with either Mother or me, Kibble always treated us with courtesy and explained everything aloud as she would to another human.

It was also fortunate that the other cat was telepathic with me and understood what she said.

Humans! I don’t suppose she checked the oxygen levels before she left her craft? Neither of you have need of that clumsy attire. If you lose your tether it is of no consequence. Bring me the fishie treats. Bring me the fishie treats. You will bring me the fishie treats nyow…

I was willing to do this, but I couldn’t think how, with my teeth behind glass and my claws in gloves. Of course, according to the COB, I could take my helmet off. He would not be the one gasping for air if it were less wholesome than he claimed. So I said, with what I liked to think was considerable cunning, If there is oxygen enough for us to remove our helmets, then there is oxygen enough for you to come out of your hole and fetch the treats yourself.

I am weak from hunger and injured.

Then crawl out of your hole and fetch the treats and Kibble will tuck you into her pouch.

I knew this old cat was trying to trick me. I wasn’t sure how or why, but he did not sound injured any more than he sounded hungry and he certainly didn’t sound frightened. He was a sham all the way, I was sure of it.

He said nothing, and for long moments I thought perhaps I had been wrong and he had perished of hunger while I argued. However, after a bit, a slim triangular tawny face with very large pointed ears and very large amber eyes appeared. The eyes glittered in the glow of Kibble’s helmet lamp. The face was followed by a short-furred, gold-bronze body with a whip of a tail. The lean and quite alien-looking cat looked like an animated statue of an ancient feline hero. I noticed that there were silver hairs among the gold at his muzzle and next to his ears.

“Molly Daise, our new passenger just came out of his hole,” Kibble said into her com. “He looks healthy and seems to be having no problem breathing.”

“Have you checked your O₂ levels, Janina?” the captain asked.

“Uh—no. We’re suited up, though.”

“If you click the second button on your suit’s wrist monitor three times and hold,” Indu told her, “a menu will appear in the window. One of the submenus will be marked ENV for Environmental Control. One of its submenus will be atmospheric conditions—three more clicks, same button. One more click on its submenu under ‘cab’ for cabin. Three more will take you to O₂, and if you click that once the level will show up on the screen. If that’s okay, click on the other gases and make sure there’s nothing toxic.”

“O₂ level is in the middle of the gauge,” Kibble told her after following the lengthy instructions, “and the COB seems to be healthy.”

“Check the temperature. Though if the cat on board can tolerate it, it’s probably fine for you and Chester as well.”

What a ponderous and primitive procedure, the skinny-faced ship’s cat said. Did I not say the atmosphere is wholesome?

You did not, not exactly, I said. And I am very valuable, and Kibble is sworn to look after me so she can’t take any chances, can she? Besides, she can’t take your word for it. She can’t hear your words.

You could convey them unto her.

No, I can’t.

Have you no link with her?

Nothing but this hose I was telling you about, I said, wagging it as a dog would his tail.

Kibble said, “Thanks, Indu. That will make this much easier. They’ve changed the way you read these since I trained for this sort of mission. Come here, Chester.”

She pulled off her helmet and gloves and plucked me from the air, then removed my helmet and peeled off the stupid suit—and the hose that attached us. Now I was truly free.

Once she’d done that, Kibble opened the packet of fishie treats and shook it, sending their aroma throughout and making me salivate. The other cat was not unaffected. Quick as a wink he shot out of his hole, grabbed the packet in—well, I thought it was his teeth—and darted back into the hole.

“No, kitty, come back!” Kibble cried.

Halt, you treat thief! I commanded him, growling ferociously. He had miscalculated, I thought. Now I was free to track him into his lair and reclaim the fishie treats. They rightfully belonged to the feline crew members of the Molly Daise. He couldn’t just take my—our—treats and run.

Pshaw-Ra extracts his tribute and retires to his chamber where he will deal doom to all who dare intrude.

Wrong! I cried, cat-paddling through the twisting cat-sized corridor. Even then I was beginning to wonder about the ship’s derelict status. Low light of undetermined origin illuminated the catwalk beneath—well, usually beneath—my paws, and I could see the tunnels spiraling out in widening triangulations behind me. Those fishie treats are not tribute. They’re mine! Kibble only gave you some to get you to come out so we could rescue you. So either come out and get rescued or, preferably, give me back the fishie treats.

Foolish kitten, Pshaw-Ra the Mariner never relinquishes the prizes that fall into his paws.

They didn’t fall into your paws. You filched them! Under false pretenses too. You sent that pathetic dream pretending you were scared of running out of air, but this ship isn’t in trouble, is it? And neither are you.

I was beginning to feel peckish, he argued, and I heard crunching noises and smelled the seductive fragrance of tender juicy fishie treats as they surrendered to his teeth and dissolved into deliciousness in his mouth. If you’ll cease your complaints, I will grant you a morsel or two.

I hesitated. I wanted to address again the question of who should be granting whom morsels, but he had the upper paw and the treats smelled very enticing, so I swam onward—more cautiously.

Once I slowed my pace—or rather, my float—I noticed my surroundings. The picture-writing featuring seated cats was scrawled all over the walls. Pshaw-Ra was evidently a doodler, I decided, and one who liked depicting himself in his graffiti.

He was also well stocked with live food, I soon realized. Shiny keka beetles dropped onto the pathway behind me and trooped toward the hole into the larger chamber.

Meanwhile Kibble was rattling the can opener and calling sweetly for Pshaw-Ra to come back. I could feel him laughing at her entreaties. She encouraged me to let him know it was okay, he was safe with us, since I suppose she felt he’d trust another cat to guarantee his safety. Kibble was a good Cat Person, but she didn’t know much about feline diplomatic relations. Unfortunately, neither did I at that time.

Then I heard her voice again, but this time she was not calling to me or to the old imposter nibbling my treats in his fortress. I recognized the murmur she used when speaking into a headpiece to the ship. At first her tone seemed oddly joyous, but it quickly erupted into surprise, consternation, and anger. She said, “No,” then, “I can’t do that,” then, “But Captain, he’s all alone and Chester is just a baby.” Finally, resigned, she said. “Very well, I obey, but under protest.”

She called me then. “Chester, come out. We need to leave now.”

You are summoned, child. Depart.

No, I said. It wasn’t only about treats now. The way he said it, he made it sound like I was Kibble’s servant and obeyed her orders like a—I had not been around many but the expression is part of my racial memory—like a dog. It was an insult difficult for any cat to ignore, especially coming from another cat who held the treat bag while an empty-handed human tried to compete.

Very well, then, stay and I will tell you a story.

A story? I like stories. The boy and I used to read stories under his covers with a flashlight. I would lie between his neck and shoulder and he would whisper the words to me, but I saw them in his mind.

So can you do with me.

“Chester! Chester come, hurry. We have to abort the mission and return to the ship.”

She sounded tearful, which was strange. Part of me wanted to go to her and see why she was so sad, but another part was still angry with her for parting me from Jubal. Let her wait. Let the Molly Daise wait. What was their hurry? Pshaw-Ra’s ship was locked in our tractor beam and going nowhere.

It all began in ancient times on old Earth … Pshaw-Ra began. Good. A long story. I drifted closer and saw him just ahead, snuggled into the nose cone of his peculiar cabin, curled up and relaxed. The fishie treats were scattered in front of him, mine for the taking. I snatched up one and ate it, then composed myself, paws and tail tucked as I floated near the ceiling, settling in to listen and enjoy myself.

Janina was delighted to hear that Jared had a message for her but puzzled that the captain had felt it couldn’t wait until she returned to relay it. When she heard the content of the recording, though, her heart sank as fast as it had risen. “Chester!” she called. “Chester, come back.”

But though she called and rattled the can opener, and called again, he didn’t come. She tried to keep her voice cheerful and enticing as she continued to call. He would of course be busy assisting the other ship’s cat in devouring the treats. If only the captain’s com had come before the stranded cat snatched them away and Chester had galloped off in pursuit.

She used the pocket torch in her utility kit to find the hole where the cats had disappeared, and leaned forward, calling directly into it. She could hear the sound of cat treats being daintily crunched between rows of sharp white teeth, but no answering mew from either cat or the sound of paws coming toward her. She reached up into the hole, putting her arm in up to the shoulder, thinking she might feel a furry hide she could yank out, a measure she would never take under ordinary circumstances, partially from fear she might injure the cat, but more realistically that even the gentlest cat, cornered and grabbed like that, would lash out at her hand.

But her fingers touched no fur, just a bend in the corridor. Then something prickly crawled over them, and another thing and another. Hard nubby little things. She withdrew her arm as if she’d been burned and found the suit sleeve coated with the iridescent shiny beetles like the one Chester had caught in Jared’s office.

She shook her arm, but as she did so, she heard something snap and looked back at the hole. She didn’t see it. The wall looked completely solid again. Only the beetles scrambling up and around her testified that there had been a door, or a cat.

She had a small laser saw in her kit but her classes had not covered this sort of situation. “Molly Daise, Chester and the victim have disappeared inside the cat hole and somehow it has closed solid. Chester did not respond to my calls and I cannot reach him where he is. Request a team to demolish the bulkhead and retrieve him.”

“Request denied, CP. Return to base at once.” Indu’s voice was one of impersonal command that Janina had seldom heard before, and never directed at her.

“But Chester—”

“Abandon feline per-personnel,” Indu continued, her voice faltering.

“Janina,” Captain Vesey’s voice answered. “Leave him.”

“Then I’m staying too!” she said. Abandoning her charge was unthinkable to her.

“Consider this, Jannie,” the captain said, using the name Janina had sometimes been called when much, much smaller, and before she had gone to CP school. “You say there is plenty of oxygen, the stranded cat is in no distress that you can see. Leave them the food and water on board the shuttle and come away. We have the derelict’s identity code and position. Until the government’s order is lifted, both cats may be better off there than here. Now do as you’re told. Every second you are breathing the oxygen in that ship may deprive the cats of it later on.”

That finally convinced her. Janina replaced her helmet and used the suit’s oxygen, her tears steaming up the faceplate of her helmet as she returned to the shuttle, leaving the hatch open while she unloaded the emergency bags of cat food, which floated like lumpy clouds, rising to the ceiling. The packaging, though airtight, could be easily ruptured by a cat’s standard equipment. The water situation was a bit trickier, but long ago someone had devised a large bottle with a nipple that cats could use in free-fall to quench their thirst.

There were also the beetles, which she saw everywhere now, it seemed. There were even some inside the shuttle. The cats seemed to like those, so they would be additional food for Chester and the other ship’s cat. She looked back one last time to where she thought the hole had been, then reboarded the shuttle and returned to the Molly Daise, leaving the cats, at least temporarily, to their fate.

Chessie ran to Janina, looking for Chester. When she realized he was gone, she cried and cried for him, making Janina cry again too.

But the import of Jared’s message was even worse than she’d thought.

Jared had not been specific in the brief transmission she’d received on board the seeming derelict, but Captain Vesey had since received further orders from the GG and the GHA elaborating on the state of the perceived emergency.

The glittering matter in the mucosal secretions of the wild pintos shipped off planet had been deemed to be a harbinger of a possible galaxywide epidemic that threatened all livestock and pets aboard ships. All animals exhibiting the symptoms and any they had come in contact with were to be impounded for quarantine and possibly destroyed, depending on further findings.

“But the glittery spit is just a by-product of them eating those shiny beetles!” Janina protested after reading the full edict.

Captain Vesey shrugged. “They apparently think the beetles carry some disease.”

“They can’t kill Chessie and all the other ships’ cats based on an unsubstantiated theory!” Janina said. “They can’t!”

“Of course they can,” Indu said. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”