Alas, I knew deep in my soul it was nearly impossible. The Swallow was an old ship and couldn’t be that reactive. “If there is a real god, goddess, or Great Manitou, may one of them show up quickly!” I firmly grasped the stick, ready to span left at the last moment. But before I could contract my muscles, the Kitty swirled out of control. Before my eyes, the missile brushed off the cockpit.

  The Ludgren narrowly missed us and got lost at the bottom of the water. The electromagnetic dome flickered before returning to a stable state. The nuclear reactor was hit.

  Despite my reluctance, the computer abruptly unfolded the brake fins at full speed, making the hull shriek. The beak of the Interceptor struck the Kitty’s single turbine, bending the forked tail. I had found a name for this clever maneuver: a Yaan-ze!

  A secondary Blue tank burst on impact, spraying coolant all over the Interceptor cockpit. My paw slipped to reactivate the engine at full power as we were both close to the water. A gigantic explosion occurred before a ‘perfectly handled’ landing on the outskirts of the village. The swallow had struck down its predator, henceforth lost at the bottom of the lake. “That’s how we do on Titan, you corrupted mucky corporatists! The Rings will rise again!”

  The joy was sadly short-lived. When I reached dry land, limping more than walking, most of the houses were burning. Thick black smoke covered the bank. The streets were littered with mutant corpses. Nevertheless, a few Customs officers were also lying on the ground. They didn’t expect Beek-sun’s heavy weaponry.

  “What does all of this even mean, stupid covetous humans?” I asked, briefly examining a steel breastplate scorched by a corrosive gel. “This is a disaster… Why can’t y—”

  An exchange of gunfire took place not far from the ice well. I heard Ali’s pistol detonate and a man’s scream through the smoke screen.

  Not very far, Beek-sun stood against the circular wall, a gaping gash on his belly. The poor boy tried to compress his wound, but the blood was flooding the orange sand beneath his baseball bat. I saw him struggling to talk to me and I only answered with a sad smile that he gave back.

  “It—it’s nice to feel the freshness,” he stuttered. “In the Chinese plant, it was a—a dreadful furnace.”

  “I’m so sorry…”

  “Don’t. Besides, you taught us to ignore pain, right?”

  “Rambo III,” I sighed, a tear in the corner of my eye.

  “The best of the three.” Beek-sun laughed between two coughing fits. He contemplated his devastated village without seeing it. “Thank you for coming back, my friends. I hope the Kitty is flying well. There’s a part of me in her now. A part of Yaan-ze too…”

  When he died, the dome disappeared for a second like it was mourning its master. The black smoke was sucked up into the heights before falling back on the hamlet. Beek-sun vanished in the dark swirls.

  It was just before I was grabbed by my throat. Someone crushed my snout. Without being able to defend myself, my assailant pressed cold metal against my ear. The copper-shouldered NCO shouted: “Where’s your whore? Where’s that fucking bitch that—” A round pierced the black smoke and hit her in the knee. A .50 caliber bullet rarely does things by halves. That thug could say goodbye to her left limb.

  To hold her remaining bones and ligaments in place, the brute threw me against the well. Fortunately, she slipped, and I landed between her severed leg and Beek-sun’s burning baseball bat.

  When I turned back, another shot tore off most of the NCO right hand. She dropped her .32 which fell next to me. When she tried to grab it with her poor stump, I bit the last of her fingers as she screamed in anger: “I’m an officer! I’m a fucking Customs officer from the fucking Jovian Commonwealth! Don’t you compute what you’re doing?”

  Ali leaped through the smoke screen with her jetpack. Her face was expressionless. A few light wounds were scattered across her torso and a blade was stuck in her thigh, but she casually walked towards the NCO before aiming her gun at her. Seconds later, the hot cannon was against the soldier’s forehead.

  “Ouch! ok—ok—let’s forget about this FID story on Kallichore and that captain you spaced,” she pleaded. “She had it coming. She—she was a greedy cunt!”

  “You don’t say…” My partner calmly holstered her gun, and I heard the officer sigh. The human seemed relieved but with sweat drops in her eyes she didn’t see Ali reaching for Beek’s bat with her foot.

  “Let’s talk, ok? We can split the reward. Costcoland and the other kingdoms pay even better with the premium hunting permit! God Darwin be damned I won’t snitch about the captain—I won’t—”

  A drop of blood landed on my nose; then a second and eventually a third after a wet crack noise. Meanwhile, the headless NCO remained on her knees, stuck in the mud by the weight of her own red armor.

  My partner finally let herself fall by my side. She moved back before leaning against the well, next to Beek-sun’s body, resting her head on the dead young boy’s shoulder. “You shot down the Interceptor?” she asked.

  “With a bodacious maneuver worthy of Buck Danny.”

  Ali spewed. “Good.” Blood ran on her chin.

  “It shouldn’t have occurred,” I cursed myself. “Did any of the villagers survive?”

  “I don’t think so…” She took me in her arms.

  “Shame. This is Yggdrasil all over again… Even worse I would say.” I chuckled nervously. “It seems to be a common element to all of this. This is—” It was too much. I couldn’t hold this one and only teardrop. A tear mixing sorrow and exhaustion. “This is so unfair! I liked being a cat again. Even for a couple of days.”

  “This world is so fucked up… I don’t even know why Dad bothered saving us…” Ali answered.

  “He was a war criminal with a good heart.”

  “I’m just glad we’re together. I need my lucky Falkor.”

  “Hold on. Did you just compare me—a gracious Maine Coon—to this flying feathered draft stopper of Falkor?” I concluded with a wet nose kiss on her left cheek that came along with a hug. We retreated into the pink grass, letting the flames devour the former colony.

  Back to business…

  仕事に戻ろう...

  #11 DANCE WITH THE ROBOTS

  第11話 ロボットのワルツ

  It had been six months since we left Mayflower, the lost colony. Life aboard the Kitty had settled back into its usual rhythm, punctuated by the familiar, heated debates between Ali and me. Though we had exhausted an infinite variety of topics, one subject always resurfaced—to the growing irritation of the weary control computer we’d programmed to track our ongoing score.

  I remained steadfast in my conviction that Tokyo was formerly Earth’s most beautiful city—a Pacific metropolis and the ultimate consumerist bastion against Communist Eurasia. Its gleaming skyscrapers once towered above ancient temples; Yanaka’s cherry blossoms stole the spotlight from Akihabara’s neon-soaked nights; and its izakaya offered atmosphere, cheap drinks, and spicy dishes, all wrapped in cigarette smoke and the muffled voices of sports commentators reporting on the latest honbasho. Tokyo also boasted its iconic mechas—monumental, crew-controlled steel samurai built by tech-zaibatsu to defend the archipelago from mainland threats. Tragically, the Reds were the first to unleash their war machines and give rise to the megalomaniac AI that ultimately sealed Earth’s fate.

  Ali, however, would die on her hill surrounded by a moat of BBQ sauce and corn dog grease. “No way, Lee!” she declared, digging into her fanny pack while sitting beside me atop an outdoor air-conditioning unit. We’d been killing time for five hours, staking out the back exit of a star-scraper in Canyon Creek—Jupiter’s barely legal racing hub. “The only radical place on Earth-that-was? New York—freaking—City!” She emptied the last of her sour Nerds into her mouth and wiped the pink foam forming at the corners of her lips. “The Big Apple…” she sighed wistfully, her long hair floating in the artificial breeze. Nostalgia painted her face, even though her only knowledge of the place came from I Love Lucy reruns. “Nothing was more wicked!”

  “Are you serious? Besides the pointless park, the only decent landmark was the pathetic Pan Am Building,” I retorted. “At least Tokyo is still around.”

  Of all the nation-states that once divided Earth, only Japan really survived. In fact, the entire Kanto region had been lifted into space, hoisted skyward by titanic reactors. The Japanese later grafted it onto Mars’s northern hemisphere before moving to Saturn V, Rhea, after the Red Uprising. Japan’s influence spread throughout the Outer System, all the way back to the belt, so that today Emperor Akihito still rules over the same Empire from his palace in Tokyo3.

  “Too bad they left Nara behind with the Great Buddha… but speaking of architecture, don’t y—” Ali silenced me by pressing her finger to my nose, a gesture that failed to stop me from continuing—after I bit her finger, of course. “Don’t you know that the pyramids were built for—and by—cats? Now that’s monumental!”

  Sucking on her wounded fingertip, Ali muttered something unintelligible, then glanced down at the alley below. She crumpled her candy wrapper and tossed it through a shattered window below before tapping my shoulder. “Look!” she whispered, eyes alight. “The backdoor opened. Someone’s coming!”

  Our “someone” was Bernie Boesky, the target of a juicy bounty. The man—a flat forehead, prematurely bald trader with Browline glasses and a blue velvet suit—was hiding on Jupiter XIII under a ridiculous pseudonym.

  “Despite his tacky taste in suits,” I murmured, watching him fidget with a gold-plated Rolex, “Boesky’s a genius. He crippled his corporation’s data-core with maze-generating viruses and launched a massive insider trading scheme!”

  “Nobody cares, nerd,” Ali cut in, rolling her eyes. She always managed to intensify my headaches with that attitude.

  “People could still work in these buildings,” I muttered. “Forget the jetpack. We need to be discreet.”

  “Got the perfect plan,” she replied with a mischievous gleam, drawing the stolen tantō she’d been carrying since our last contract. “Imma jump.”

  “Wait, what? That’s thirty meters!” I stammered, a cigarette dangling from my lips. “No way!”

  “Yes way!” she grinned, leaping off the ledge with a triumphant, “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!”

  “Oh dear,” I sighed. Quoting action movies didn’t make her immortal, but I could only blame TV for inspiring her reckless imagination.

  Boesky never saw her coming. Ali landed with precision, stabbing him straight in the chest and slamming him to the ground. His head collided with a steel recycling bin, shattering his temporal microchips and rendering him unconscious. Seconds later, his pleas for mercy devolved into gurgles, silenced entirely as Ali finished him off with ruthless efficiency. He finally gave up the ghost between two crimson bubbles.

  But something happened. Blood-streaked and panting, Ali lifted her gaze to find a woman in a beige pantsuit standing in the doorway—a reporter, flanked by two technicians and a floating Polaroid drone. Katie Goldberg of FFN-79 had arrived just in time to witness us butchering the subject of her live broadcast.

  “Another place throwing us out!” Ali cried, clutching the leather-bound menu with trembling hands. Her fingers lingered over the holographic images of stir-fried noodles and pork bibimbaps as if they were her new Rob Lowe’s calendar. “Lee, I’m hungry!” she whined, then, in a fit of frustration, bit down on the expensive menu cover. “Can’t we go somewhere else? Like Himaliapolis—or Elara?”

  I smirked. “I’m not sure the Mennonites would appreciate you flaunting your elbows around their Amish Paradise.”

  Her stomach growled audibly, drawing cautious glances from passers-by who quickly sought refuge in the nearest electronic store upon recognizing us. Canyon Creek, with its polished streets and pristine facades, wasn’t exactly a haven for outcasts like us. The wealthy Callistoan elites who frequented this district weren’t known for their love of greasy spoons or hole-in-the-wall diners. No instant nutri-meal vending machines, no sketchy Hook’n’Tacos—just overpriced restaurants that would sooner kick us out than seat us.

  “Alliance men aren’t exactly welcome in the Jovian Commonwealth either,” I added, hopping off the bench at the bus stop across from the fancy restaurant. “And let’s face it, our little TV debut didn’t win us any popularity contests per se.”

  “I thought violence was in the mix,” Ali complained, her voice rising. “People binge-watch COPS all day long!”

  I wandered towards the CRT screens plastered across the RadioShack window on the opposite side of the street. The Kitty Crew was plastered all over the headlines. When Ali joined me, the grainy footage of Boesky’s violent demise flickered on the screen, slowed down for maximum drama.

  “Why do they keep calling us ‘non-affiliated mercs’?” Ali fumed. “That cock-sucking Goldberg’s making us look like bloodthirsty killers!”

  “Language, girl!” I chided, though the coverage wasn’t doing us any favors. There was no mention of us being Alliance-sanctioned bounty hunters. In fact, the Alliance had already sent an email cutting ties and freezing our accounts for a time, to distance themselves from the PR fallout. The chyron below Ali’s blood-smeared mugshot read ‘Blood Fury of Canyon Creek’ in bold red letters.

  “Wait—is that me?” Ali stuttered, her hand flying to her cheek. “Oh geez! I have a pimple there!” Her indignation evaporated as her stomach growled again, and she collapsed theatrically to the ground.

  She was still sprawled there when a shadow fell over us.

  “Greetings, madam,” came a smooth, regal voice. “Would you happen to be Ali, the ‘Blood Fury of Canyon Creek’?”

  A man—or rather, an android—stepped into view. His humanoid features were intricately sculpted, his metallic skin gleaming beneath a blond wig and a long brocade jacket with a cream jabot. He looked like a gentleman plucked from an ancient aristocratic court, complete with glowing ice-blue eyes that hinted at authority.

  “Well?” the android pressed politely, inclining his head.

  “I—uh—yes,” Ali stammered, still sprawled on the dusty pavement.

  Offering his forearm, the android helped her up after an elegant bow. “Marvelous,” he said with a polished smile. “It is an honor to meet you. My name, if I may—”

  “You may,” Ali interjected, curiosity piqued.

  With a peacock-like strut, the android flourished another bow and announced, “Rodrigue Bonisseur-Marie Lapérouse, Marquis de Bellescharettes.” He bent to kiss Ali’s hand. Normally, anyone attempting such a gesture would have found themselves slapped to the ground—or worse. But this Rodriguo, as I quickly dubbed him, was a different breed.

  Free androids weren’t uncommon in the Inner and Middle Systems, but beyond the asteroid belt, they were a rarer sight. Most remained simple laborers or assistants, little more than unpaid interns with a spark of initiative. Rodriguo, however, was clearly an orgadroid—one of the ultra-intelligent machines with organic components in their artificial brains. These androids often developed distinct personalities and, like him, a flair for the drama.

  “My intentions, Milady, are as transparent as crystal,” Rodrigue began, his voice gliding with the practiced grace of courtly decorum. “I desire nothing more than to extend to you the honor of attending my family’s annual ball, an event of no small distinction, I assure you.”

  I wasn’t interested in this aristorobot’s smooth talking about his probable Royal Knockout, but Ali’s eyes lit up. “A ball? With a banquet and stuff?” she squealed. “Sounds better than Prom!”

  I perked up at the mention of food. The android’s persuasive charm was winning me over—not that I’d admit it aloud.

  When Ali lamented her lack of appropriate attire, Rodrigue insisted on escorting her to Canyon Creek’s finest couturier. The shop, accustomed to outfitting Martian supermodels, spared no expense in creating a dress worthy of high society. Rodrigue, of course, covered it all.

  Hours later, as we waited for Rodrigue to depart for his ship, I teased my partner. “Never pegged you for the mall-princess type, Ali.”

  “It’s not about the clothes,” she replied, hefting her shopping bags. “It’s about feeling special. And cherished.”

  “Don’t I cherish you enough?” I meowed, flattening my ears.

  She laughed, flagging down a sleek taxicab. “You’re such a drama queen! Besides, this ball could be fun—unless you ruin it again with a Soviet spy! It will be like a Disney movie! And you did enjoy Sleeping Beauty the other night.”

  “Don’t you dare say that out loud, woman!” I hissed, tail lashing.

  She smirked as the cab pulled up. “Pretty woman,” she corrected, tossing her bags into the trunk.

  Later that evening, we secured the Kitty in the specialized cargo hold of Rodrigue’s first-generation Falstaff, a distinguished British exploration vessel nicknamed the Chrome Condor for its impressive 200-meter wingspan.

  “Ready to go!” Rodriguette declared as the two Rolls Royce reactors purred, their hum reminiscent of a storm raging on Mercury.

  With practiced ease, the ship slipped through solar winds as the three of us set out for the ball. According to the Marquis, this grand event was held aboard a station whose precise location was known only to the system’s enigmatic orgadroids: the legendary floating manor of the Liddenbürg dynasty.

  During the journey across the Himalia group, our new friend proved to be a remarkable host—charming, endlessly fascinating, and thoroughly entertaining. Rodrigue regaled us with tales of his exploits in the void, his adventures spanning UN expeditions and TMC war frigates. The glint of silvery sparks in his glass eyes made it clear his stories were no fabrication.