Wattys 2019 Poetry Winner |
#1 Epic Poem January 2020 |
#1 Epic Poem June 2019 |
#1 Americana Nov 2019 & Feb 2021 | Meowza!
#1 Animal Fiction Mar 2021 |
#1 Animal Fiction August 2021
Seven cats live in Feline Society #337, along with Hooman #1 and...
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Greg and I cannot hold the car full of lizardmen any longer; I'm concerned we may have to let Hooman #A fistfight to maintain space between Proxima Centauri B's reptilian forces, and the innocent hoomans aboard this train, until the sky flashes bright with lasers, purple and white.
The lasers ricochet off tiny, flying mirrors in the distant desert; they approach quick, like a magenta thunderstorm.
As Major of Cat Society #337, I am qualified to explain the weapons system installed in our space craft. I assure you, our Space Force is more convincing than anything established by Orange Man...
First, we send nanotechnology-powered drones that look quite similar to the flying cameras hoomans gift for Christmas, except sleeker and uglier, like Tesla's Cybertruck.
Our drones are also small: about the size of a paw, with billions of electrons simulating a larger computer through ultraviolet lithography and holographic dimensions.
One drone is easily worth more than an iPhone, though we never bothered to develop touch technology; no reason when we have the GalaNet and we have to pretend thumbs with our thumb-gloves.
So once these drones position themselves, they move in a choreographed dance, generating heat that amplifies into either a purple or white glow, depending on the health of each drone's battery.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, is as frustrating as a small computer with a drained battery.
That's why the drones dock at our secret base, with our space ship.
Unfortunately, we've been here on Earth for too long, which means many of our drones, even fully charged, produce inferior white light.
The choreographed dance doesn't end until all drones glow. Then they strike by flipping their bodies inside out to reveal delicate mirrors that can ricochet from their tiny surfaces across any distance a catseye can see, which is exceptional given the breadth of GalaNet.
In our universe, light can travel for billions of years.
In the Feline Militia, they told us a story of a cloud of drones radiating lasers from our planet all the way to Proxima Centauri B, yet I never truly believed it.
I find planetary warfare a harder catnip to swallow than the beautiful array of violet-white light roiling towards the train.
Lasers slip through the windows of the lizardmen's car, and though they dilute in power through glass, they still turn half the invaders to ash, vaporizing them.
Greg rolls back, hissing next to me. I bat a paw on his face. Further aggressive delays are obviously unnecessary.
He will be frustrated with me for contacting the brave women at our home node, given we agreed they would focus on Hooman #1 and Philosopher Jones, but we aren't the spritely cats we were two years ago. Four-year-old bodies are not as reliable on Earth, and Greg's panting shows it.
As a second barrage of violet-white light shifts through the room in a fractal pattern, Greg no-claw thwaps me in the face.
