Kitty Cat Kill Sat: A Feline Space Adventure

by Argus .

I allow myself a moment to sigh and close my eyes, which is like a nap, only useless.

There is a lie that cats do not care. I care, with a fury the clouded sun cannot hope to match.

My name is Lily ad-Alice. First, and only, member of the species Felis astra. Honorary human, self-imposed conscript in a very long war. I own a space station. I am smarter than I should be. I am very old. I keep an eye on things up here. You’ve met me at an eventful time in my life.

And if there was one maddening paradox of immortality, it was that I never had enough time.

Well. You know what they say about cats and curiosity. It’s a clear path to immortality, if you’re smug enough.

I think everyone’s mostly just lucky that I didn’t go with my original idea of giving myself a thermite sword on the tail. That would have been a terrible idea; I flick that thing around so much when I get excited. Or scared. Or bored. Or hungry.

I am alone. I am so small, and so alone, in the endless night. The world turns off to my side. An indescribable distance away, one of the moons shows its rocky surface in reflected sunlight. And the only thing I can hear is my own hissing breath, and the only thing I feel is the beat of my heart.

Normal cats chase the red dot. I chase the floating fusion core that makes the red dot. I’m playing in hard mode.

It’s nice, then, to finally plant a seed. To grow something. To take a step toward a world that’s less fire and ash, and more green.

At the end of all things, all of us, together, against the darkness. “It’s the Last Oath,”

Ennos’s voice wraps around me. “Get some sleep,” they say, reassuringly. “We did what we could. One day, we will have done enough.” “That’s a better oath …” I think to myself as I drift off.

There’s always someone dead who didn’t deserve it. Always some tragic sacrifice. Always another handful of lost survivors. It has literally been that way since I got here. Doesn’t make it any easier to keep living through it, though.

With a slow motion, I make my counterpoint in the time-honored tradition of my people. A paw, slowly extended, slaps one of the canisters to the floor.

“I think I can,” I mew softly. “Fight forever. I think life is art, and death is just a mess on the deck, and I think I have a preference.” I look up, tongue flicking over the back of my paw as I match the camera stare of Glitter’s art drone with half-lidded eyes. “I’m only here because my mom thought the same way. Thought that death was worth fighting. And I’m going to keep doing that.”

Smug satisfaction is, in my entire life, the best recreational drug I’ve ever encountered. And it is so much better when you can do it around other people.