Cyberkatz 1999

EPISODE ONE: EARTHQUAKE

"One forty-four is twelve times twelve," Kurt chanted, "one thirty-two is twelve times eleven; one twenty is twelve times...."

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel. He had taught himself to recite the times tables backwards when he was in grade six. Although society seemed to have little demand for this skill, he had discovered that it helped him focus in tense situations.

"...seventy-two is TWELVE TIMES SIX; SIXTY IS TWELVE TIMES FIVE; FORTY-TWO -- NO, FORTY-EIGHT -- "

His voice froze in his throat as the ground beneath him quivered. Another aftershock! Just his luck to be trapped on the switchback when the end came. The mountain could split open at any moment, swallowing the highway and everything on it.

"Forty-eight is twelve times four; thirty-six is twelve times three..."

He scanned the pavement in front of him, oblivious to the world-renowned beauty of the Clayoquot Plateau Park. No cracks. Not yet.
He stomped on the accelerator. The engine of his forest green Trekker roared impressively, but its rate of progress remained unchanged on the steep upward grade. As soon as he found a cheaper place to live, he was going to trade this useless toy in on something gutsy enough to tackle mountain roads!

A recreational vehicle appeared from behind the rocks ahead like a rectangular iceberg, listing to one side as it coasted around the tight curve, two wheels over the white line.

Kurt jerked his steering wheel to the right. Too late, he remembered that B.C. Highway Number 4 did not have the wide paved safety lanes of Saskatchewan: the gravelled shoulder was only eighteen inches wide. The right front wheel of his Trekker bounced off the pavement and into the low cement safety wall.

Kurt forgot all about earthquakes and times tables while he fought to wrench the car back onto the highway without ramming the oncoming RV.  Miraculously, he managed to get all four wheels back on the pavement without scraping anything. He sucked in a long, deep breath of relief and looked into the rearview mirror to check on the progress of the departing RV.

"Damn this piece of junk, anyway!"

The back hatch of the Trekker had popped open. His tent and camp stove were strewn on the shoulder of the road, and his cooler had rolled half-way down into the steep ditch.

He braked, cursing the manufacturer of the door lock and himself for not getting it fixed last year. He eased the Trekker as far right as he could without sliding into the ditch and backed up carefully towards his lost possessions, praying that no traffic would appear behind him. Popping the hatch was a perfect conclusion to the vacation from hell.

Leaving the geologically stable province of Saskatchewan to seek his fortune on Vancouver Island had been the biggest mistake of his life. If he got off this switchback alive, he was going home. Being sucked into a tornado or choked by a dust cloud was negligible compared to the horror of being swallowed by the earth.

Being a management trainee with Homeworld Entertainment, Inc., in a provincial capital had sounded glamorous from two provinces away. As it turned out, he was no more than a glorified sales clerk on commission, and his lifestyle was considerably more straitened than he had been led to expect. Saskatoon was one of the cheapest places in Canada to live; Victoria was a hang-out for international tourists and retirees with healthy stock portfolios. He told everyone at home how lucky he was to be somewhere with green grass in December instead of blizzards, but that was only because he was embarrassed to admit that he had made a colossal error.

All he could afford by way of vacation on his first week off was the half-day drive through the mountains to camp on the Pacific rim of Vancouver Island. Long Beach had proved to be everything the tourist brochure claimed. But the brochure had not mentioned earthquakes.
The disturbance that had shocked him awake just before dawn this morning was no more a shudder, less than 4.0 on the Richter scale. A routine shifting in the Juan de Fuca plate some forty miles beneath the ocean: nothing to worry about, the seismologists on the portable radio said. Just a reminder that the rocks were under stress and would break sooner or later.

Sooner or later. The phrase haunted Kurt. After the tremor, he walked over the sand with his legs braced apart like a cowboy's. He peered apprehensively into the Pacific horizon, envisioning the pulverizing fury of a tsunami.

At noon, his hands were still shaking. He washed his lunch down with a mickey of gin he had stashed under the front passenger seat. An hour later, after regurgitating on the pristine sand, he stuffed his gear into his car and headed back towards the city. At least he would be safe from tidal waves on the fourteenth floor.

Kurt put the Trekker into Park, set the brake, and stepped onto the pavement, slamming the door with disgust. If something went wrong now, there would be nothing heroic or meaningful about his death, any more than his life had been heroic or meaningful. He imagined the terse obit buried in the back pages of the newspaper: Kurt Askall, 23, formerly of Saskatoon, missing, presumed drowned when Vancouver Island sank into the ocean. Enjoyed auto mechanics, baseball, and role-playing games. Sadly missed by his parents and two sisters.... Nothing about the glorious careers he had planned as a test pilot, SWAT commander, action series author, and superspy.

He tucked the camp stove under one arm, picked up the tent bag with the other, and stowed them in the back of his Trekker. Next, Kurt took two cautious steps sideways down the steep sides of the ditch, grabbed his picnic cooler by one handle and hauled it out. As he walked back to his vehicle, the bulky chest banged against his leg at every step. At least it hadn't popped open when it bounced off the pavement.

He set the cooler on his rear bumper and surveyed the disorder in the hatch. The space for the cooler had disappeared when the load shifted. It had successfully shared that space before; logic dictated that it would fit in now. Kurt jammed the cooler against the mess and pushed.
Something pale and fluffy popped out from behind his sleeping bag.

Kurt jumped back, bumping his head on the open hatch. The animal scrambled away from him, over the back of the rear seat.

"Oh great," Kurt muttered, checking his scalp for blood. "What else can go wrong?"

Some kind of local wildlife. But what? Was there such a thing as an albino skunk?

Leaving the hatch open, Kurt eased along the side of the vehicle for a better look.

The intruder was a cat. A large, exquisitely groomed ball of cream-coloured fur with silvery-blue tips, wearing a rhinestone collar. It stared at him through wide-open irises of brilliantly blue eyes, then jumped forward into the front passenger seat.

"Where did you come from?" Kurt asked.

This had to be an expensive animal. Such feline perfection could only maintained by the services of a kitty grooming parlour. For all he knew, the jewels on the collar were diamonds.

No matter. He had no time for stowaways.

He opened the passenger door. "C'mon, kitty. Out you go!"

The cat did not move.

He reached for it. It backed away into the driver's seat, just beyond his fingertips.

Sighing with exasperation, Kurt walked around the front of the Trekker and got into the driver's seat. The cat had moved out of reach on the floor of the passenger seat.

"Look -- I'm in a hurry! Get out!!"

After several attempts to evict the intruder, he slammed the hatch shut and returned to the driver's seat.

"I don't have time to fool around with you," he lectured the cat as he revved the engine and eased off the parking brake. "I'll give you a ride to Nanaimo, no further. Understood?"

He pulled onto the pavement, eased around the hairpin turn and began crawling up the next grade. The switchback was only fifteen miles long, but it felt like fifty.

The Trekker roared triumphantly as it completed the long ascent and began coasting downwards. Kurt eased his foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to gather speed. In five hours or so, he would be safely back in Victoria, in his private nest in the sky. But what if the tower where he lived was not earthquake-proof?

The cat put its front paws on the passenger seat and leaped up effortlessly. It sat facing Kurt, contemplating him with its disconcertingly blue topaz eyes.

"I don't care if you belong to the president of India," he told it defensively. "I'm not turning back. They'll just have to pick you up at the animal shelter."
The cat emitted a soft Mrrr and butted its forehead against his arm. He unclenched his hand and stroked the soft fur.

The tightness gripping his chest relaxed, and he was able to breathe deeply again. The hairpin curves seemed simple to negotiate now, even with only one hand on the wheel. The idea of being devoured by a fissure seemed ludicrous.

"I guess I'm just a dumb flatlander," he said, scratching the cat under the chin. "Who else would get excited about an earthquake that's not even a 4.0?"

When he stopped at Nanaimo, he did not inquire about the animal shelter. He spent the last dollars of his available credit on a litter box, cat food, a wicker pet taxi, catnip spray, cat repellent spray, and an assortment of kitty toys. His lease specified no pets, but who would know?

Kurt's biological cognizance was insufficient to make a positive gender identification, but he named his new pet Melissa, after his former girlfriend, now happily married and pregnant in Turtleford, Saskatchewan. The feline Melissa was a much better listener than her namesake.

EPISODE TWO: THE GOLDEN CARROT

"Please, Mr. Askall." The female voice on the telephone pronounced the words precisely, with a trace of accent Kurt could not identify. "I must have the cat."

"Who are you? How did you find me?" Kurt demanded. Instantly, he regretted giving himself away. He should have politely told the mystery caller she had the wrong number, and hung up.

"I am the owner of the cat," the voice said with dispassionate exactness. "I must have it back. Please. It is very urgent."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kurt said. "There are no pets allowed in this building."

"The cat was frightened by the earthquake. It must have taken shelter in your car."

"How? I always lock the doors."

"Perhaps a window was open," the voice suggested with maddening logic. "Please. This animal is more important than you can imagine. I offer you a large reward."

"A large reward, eh?"

"I will have twenty thousand of your currency units transferred to whatever bank account you choose."

Kurt snickered. "Oh yeah. Twenty thousand for a cat. Is this Orion, by any chance, with a galaxy on her collar that you have to recover before an alien warship blows us all up?"

His clever allusion to contemporary cinematic art was lost on his interlocutrix. "You may keep the collar if you wish," she responded seriously.

Kurt said nothing, allowing the silence to find its own breaking point.

"There is a vital microchip in its ear," the voice said at last. "Many will die without it."

"You're crazy." He knew he should hang up, but he was too intrigued, trying to imagine the woman who matched the voice. An ice goddess -- or did the flat voice hide a heart of searing flame?

"The cat will die if you keep it. Please -- we must have it back."

Uneasiness washed over Kurt. Melissa had lapped a little water, but she had not eaten or used the litter box in the two days she had been in Kurt's apartment. Even though she looked as healthy and contented as ever, there had to be something seriously wrong.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Bring the cat to 469 Calova Avenue at three o'clock this afternoon. Ask for Cynthia. You will not regret it."

"469 Calova Avenue at three. See you there."

Kurt returned the phone to its cradle on the coffee table and began ruffling the yellow pages of the telephone directory, hoping to stumble across some clue as to what he would find at 469 Calova Avenue. His brain was spinning with questions. Was this a prank of some kind? Should he keep the appointment, or pretend this crazy phone call never happened?

The offer of twenty thousand dollars was tempting, enough to get a decent car. But it had to be a golden carrot to get his attention. No feline in the universe was that valuable.

"Don't worry, Mel," he told his new bedmate. "Nobody's going to take you away."

She came at the sound of his voice, and began weaving between his legs. He scratched her head, listening for her purr. It had a tinny sound -- not the full-bodied rumble he would expect from a cat this size -- but soothing nonetheless.

"We're buds, Melissa -- together forever," he reassured her again as he eased her into her wicker pet taxi. It was unlikely that anyone would break into his apartment while he was away, but he was taking no chances.

"Now be very quiet," he admonished, fitting the pet taxi into a laundry basket and covering it with dirty clothes. "If they find out about you, we'll be evicted. I don't have cash or energy for another move right now."

EPISODE THREE: BEHIND THE BEAD CURTAIN

Kurt looked around nervously. He had never visited Calova Avenue before, and he never wanted to again, in this or any future life.

The window of the dusty storefront was boarded up, and the the door was fortified with a heavy grill. A weatherbeaten sign proclaimed: DAVE'S TATTOO PARLOUR AND FANTASY BROKER.

A brothel? Kurt wondered. He deliberated for a long moment before pushing the door open.

A burly individual, his scraggly auburn locks restrained by a fiery red bandanna, looked up from creating the image of a sardonic skull on a muscular teen-ager's bicep.

"C'n I help ya?"

Kurt swallowed. "I'm Kurt. I have an appointment with Cynthia."

"Cynthia, huh?" The giant's face split into a grin. "Lucky you! Just head into the back, and Jenny will hook you up."

He waved towards a curtain of beads.

Jenny, who appeared to be in the final stages of anorexia, was attired in a black leather skirt, a skimpy crop top, and four-inch spike heels.

"Where's the cat?" she asked in a tone that implied that she did not care in the least.

"In a safe place," Kurt said. "I need more information."

"Okay," Jenny said without changing her tone. "You can talk to Cynthia. Over here."

Cynthia was not a real person, but a fully refined virtual reality construct. An hour later, Kurt had greatly deepened his understanding of the kind of fantasies that were brokered in the little booths behind the bead curtain.

"When do I get to meet you face to face?" he asked when his breathing had slowed sufficiently to talk.

Cynthia pouted. "Is the program defective? I can modify and try again."

"Maybe later," Kurt said. He was not at all confident that he could survive another sexual tsunami. "I want to discuss Mel -- the cat."

"It is mine. Bring it." Cynthia pouted again.

"I need more information."

"Bring it."

The booth flooded with pheromones. Twenty minutes later, Kurt agreed to exchange Melissa for thirty thousand dollars and a lifetime of unlimited visits to Dave's.

EPISODE FOUR: DEAD OR ALIVE

Kurt leaned unsteadily against the driver's side of his Trekker, digging in the pockets of his jeans for the keys.

"That place needs a recovery room," he muttered.

He turned the key and pulled on the handle. The door refused to open.

"Huh?" Instead of unlocking the door, he had locked it. He turned the key again, berating himself. How could he be so careless as to leave his vehicle unlocked in a tough neighbourhood like this?  

He shook his head as he slid into the driver's seat. "Gotta get on the ball."

He was having serious second thoughts about his deal with Cynthia. Sure, the money would be nice -- but once these people had Mel, what guarantee was there that they would pay a dime?

Something hard jammed into the back of his head. Kurt yelped. Before he could look over his shoulder, a large hand had a fistful of his hair in an iron grip.

"Keep still and do exactly as you are told," a heavy bass voice growled from the back seat. "No tricks, and no one gets hurt."

For a moment Kurt wondered if he was still in the VR booth. This was too theatrical, like a bad cop show.

"Hey, what's --" he asked, before a mighty yank threatened to uproot his hair.

"Quiet, I said! Just start the engine."

There was no further conversation, except the occasional terse order to change lanes, to slow down, to turn. While vaguely recalling the eleven-times, ten-times, and nine-times tables, Kurt watched for street signs, but he was too woozy to absorb what he saw. It was all he could do to keep the Trekker moving without hitting anything.

A police car turned into the street in front of him. Kurt pushed the gas pedal to the metal, hoping to gain enough momentum to rear-end the cruiser.  The mysterious hand grabbed another handful of hair, jerking his head backwards.

"I can bring you in dead or alive."

"Take it easy, bud --" Kurt yelped and slowed down. The cruiser turned on its flashing lights and sped away, siren blaring.

"Dead or alive," the voice repeated. Kurt decided that co-operation was the best option.

A few turns later, they were neatly parked in space #126 beside a huge office tower. His captor released his hair. Kurt heard a series of soft clicks.

"Gotim. C'mon down."

Kurt began to breathe a little easier. Whatever plan his abductor had for him, immediate murder was not part of it.

He studied the building, hoping for clues. It was not new by any means. The grimy walls were in serious need of sand-blasting. Six broad steps led up to the entrance -- a revolving door flanked by standard doors. No wheelchair ramp. A handful of people, coming and going.

One of them, a blonde in a business suit, was making her way towards them. She looked over forty, attractive in a nondescript sort of way. Kurt studied her face. If he shouted for help, would she be the kind of person to do something, or would she just keep walking? Even if she wanted to help, was it fair to involve her?

Before Kurt was ready to make his move, the blonde was beside him, opening his door.

"This way, please," she said in pleasant, even tones, as if she were a receptionist ushering a client into the presence of her boss. If this woman was a criminal, she certainly did not look the part.

"I've been kidnapped!" Kurt blurted.

"Please step out of the car," the blonde repeated. She smiled impersonally. "Don't worry. We'll make it worth your while."

Kurt heard the back door of the Trekker open. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bulky tweed-covered shoulder, some four inches higher than his own. He had no way of knowing if the thing jammed warningly into his spine was really a gun, but there was no doubt in his mind that the man who held it could, and would, inflict serious damage. He fell into step with the woman in blue.

If only he knew the city better! A building this large had to be a landmark of sorts. He strained unsuccessfully to make out the letters on the engraved bronze plaque on the wall at the left of the stairs.

His companion led him through the door on the right, over a mirror-shiny marble floor, past a bank of four elevators with a dozen people waiting.

While reviewing the eight-times and seven-times tables, Kurt tried to memorize his surroundings and planned what he would tell the police. He had not played all those superspy role-playing games for nothing. This situation would be a piece of cake for agent Megatrex. All Kurt had to do was follow his agenda: escape, meet some beautiful women, help the police solve the case, get his picture in the paper. Maybe even an award. When he got home, he would be a hero, and nobody would remember the management trainee disaster.

They turned into a corridor and stopped in front of a small double doorway. The blonde used a key, and the doors parted, revealing an elevator cage. She stepped inside. Tweed Jacket followed, pushing Kurt in front of him.

The blonde pushed a button. The doors snapped shut and they flew upwards. Kurt counted silently: a thousand and one, a thousand and two, a thousand and three... After sixteen seconds, the elevator halted and the door opened. Tweed Jacket pushed Kurt forward. He stumbled and almost fell into the room.

The elevator doors closed behind him. Kurt was alone in a cavernous, windowless office -- large enough to skate in, he thought irrelevantly, scanning at the oak-panelled walls, the parquet floor, and the recessed indirect lighting. Instead of a picture window overlooking the city, a twenty-foot-wide screen displayed gloriously lifelike underwater footage -- castles of coral populated by restless throngs of glinting fish, beckoning sea anenomes, serene jellyfish and even the occasional shark, but no people.

"Sit down."

The male voice, clipped and precise, seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Kurt edged nervously towards the single office chair placed with mathematical precision in front of a plexiglass desk with what appeared to be a large, slim television poking up in the centre, its blank screen fixing him with its neutral gaze.

"Sit down. Relax. We will not hurt you."

The monitor came to life, displaying a mixture of dancing colours. In spite of himself, Kurt was fascinated.

"Sit. Relax."

Kurt sat. He stared at the screen, melting into the display. He was free, floating in clouds of fuchsia and mauve and silver, followed by the blue-greens of the sea, then reds, yellows and oranges like flame.

"What have you done with the cat?" the voice asked.

Where had he heard that accent before? Cynthia -- that was it! Cynthia. She must be in cahoots with this lot. But if she was, why hadn't they captured him in the VR booth, instead of waiting until he was back in his vehicle? Why bother at all, since he had already agreed to surrender Melissa?
He scratched the back of his right hand sharply with the fingernails of his left; a nervous habit his mother had never been able to eliminate. When he needed to focus, he scratched.

He stopped floating for a moment; then the clouds swallowed him again. He scratched harder. Good. Pain counteracted the hypnotic effect of the swirling colours.

"What have you done with the cat?" the voice repeated, while the colours drew him into their Nirvana. Kurt scratched again, leaving red tracks across his hand.

"What cat?" he asked, pinching his left earlobe.

"You have the cat. Tell us where it is. We will reward you."

"Cynthia offered thirty thousand currency units," Kurt challenged, pinching himself again. "Why is the cat so important?"

"We will give you forty thousand. Where is it?"

"It ran away."

"Fifty thousand."

By the time the bidding had reached a quarter million, both of Kurt's earlobes were swollen, and he was working on his forearms.

"How do I know you won't kill me once you have what you want?"

"That would be unethical."

"Kidnapping is unethical, too!"

"There is nothing to fear. We only want the cat."

Kurt scanned the walls once again. There was no visible door other than the elevator.

Now that the pheromones had worn off, he had no intention of surrendering Melissa. Not for a million dollars. Not for ten million. It was all hypothetical anyway. There was no way these people, whoever they were, were going to part with that kind of money. But if he was going to escape, he had to get out of the room. He dug his thumb into his thigh and started on the six times tables.

"I want the money first," he said. "Then I'll show you where the cat is."

"My agents will take you to one of your banking machines. You can see for yourself."

They can tamper with banking machines? Kurt wondered. This was an upscale operation for sure. Hopefully, they didn't have control of the ferries too, or he would never get Melissa off the island.

There was a rolling noise behind him. Kurt swivelled, half expecting another gun barrel against his head.

The elevator door had opened again. Mr. Tweed Jacket was waiting, his snub-nosed weapon ready. Beside him stood Ms Blue Suit, holding a pet carrier that looked solid enough to contain a wolverine.

"Take Mr. Askall to the cash machine downstairs. After he checks his account, he will take you to your objective. Signal me when you have the package in hand."

"Tell them they're supposed to let me go when they have the cat!" Kurt said, his voice breaking with tension. "Tell them!"

"I will give the order when I receive the signal."

Kurt hesitated. What did he have to lose? Outside, he might have a chance.

"All right," he said, pushing his chair back decisively. "Let's go."

                                     EPISODE FIVE: ELEVATOR RIDE TO HELL

The elevator cage dropped so abruptly that Kurt expected to start floating. He counted the passing seconds grimly, hoping to distract himself from his uneasy stomach.

It was no more than six seconds before the elevator jarred to a stop. The lights flickered and went out.

"What the...?" Tweed Jacket's bass growled. "Where in the hell are the emergency lights?" Kurt squeezed himself in what he hoped was direction of the door, soothing himself with the five-times tables.

After a moment, a match flared, illuminating the faces of his captors. Ms Blue Suit was stabbing her forefinger at the keypad of a cell phone.

"Closer!" she snapped. "I can't see the damn numbers!"

Tweed Jacket yelped as the match burned his fingers.

"I didn't get it," the soprano voice announced.

"Cripes! You call yourself a covert operative, and you can't use a phone in the dark?"

Another match flared, and subsided almost instantly. Tweed Jacket began to swear in earnest.

Something thumped and scrabbled above them.

"What's that?" the woman squeaked.

A slim blue beam was probing through the ceiling, cutting the metal.

Tweed Jacket roared in defiance. Everything blazed blindingly like a lightning strike. Kurt caught a momentary glimpse of Tweed Jacket and Blue Suit shooting light beams with weapons that looked like props from Star Trek. A large chunk of the ceiling vaporized.

The beams shut off. Kurt looked up, his overtaxed eyes fighting to pierce the darkness. Something clunked on the floor, followed by a gentle hiss.

"Oh shit!" Blue Suit's voice whispered.

Kurt's throat tightened. His queasiness became a flood of nausea. He gagged.

"Gonna ... barf," he announced to no one in particular as he collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor. His final thought was a prayer that the vet would find Melissa a good home.

 EPISODE SIX: HOSPITAL VISIT

"Sir? Can you hear me?"

Someone was gently slapping the back of his hand. Kurt opened his eyes to unbearable brightness.

"Wha --?"

"Oh, good. You're awake." A woman's motherly face hovered above him, backlit by fluorescent lights. "You're going to be fine. Just fine. No broken bones, no concussion that we can tell."

Kurt reached for his pocket and discovered that his jeans had disappeared. He struggled to sit up.

"My wallet! Where ... my wallet?"

His pink-uniformed guardian pushed him down gently. "Take it easy. You're not ready to sit up yet. Everything will be fine."

He was in a high, narrow bed. His pillow stank of chlorine. On the left, a bank of electronic monitors; on the right, a narrow counter with cluttered shelves above it. Hospital. He was in a hospital. But how had he come here, and why?

Kurt closed his eyes and tried to remember. Melissa -- it had all started with Melissa and Cynthia and an overdose of pheromones. Swirling colours, an elevator, phaser fire. Only there was no such thing as a phaser.

"Can you tell us what happened?" the woman's voice asked.

Kurt forced his eyes open again. A photo name tag was hanging from the woman's waist. "Renée Tomlinson, R.N."

"Star Trek," he explained. "Like Star Trek."

The nurse laughed. "I guess things are still pretty blurry. Let's try something easier. Can you tell me your name?"

"Kurt -- " he began. Then he remembered Mr. Tweed Jacket and Ms Blue Suit. They might be out there looking for him. "--tisss," he finished. "Bill Curtis."

"Do you know what year this is?" Her pen was poised over a clipboard.

"1999. The year the world is supposed to end."

The ballpoint scratched on the paper. "What is your date of birth?"

"September 14, 1976."

"Address?"

"9731 Toronto Street..."

The nurse stopped writing and looked at him severely, like his mother. "I live in that area, and there's no such number."

"Sorry. I guess that was my address in Saskatoon." He wrinkled his forehead and pretended to think. "Sorry -- can't remember. Everything is blurry."

"Phone?"

He gave her the number of the Canadian Tire store where he got his oil changed.

"Allergies?"

"Elevators."

She chuckled. "I should say so. They had to pry apart the sides of the elevator and haul you up in a harness."

He had a sudden memory flash of dangling in emptiness, with flashlight beams and shouting all around him. Before the rescue workers began rappelling down the shaft, there had been a cat in the elevator -- an enormous yellow cat -- sitting on his chest, staring into his face.
He moaned.

"Are you in pain?"

"No. Just . . . mixed up."

He had slid his father's car off the road in 1994, the week after he got his licence, and had hit his head on the door frame. Afterwards, there had been shards of technicolour memories of a flying ambulance and a lady paramedic with very large breasts, when in reality he had been brought to the emergency ward by a retired farmer in a battered pick-up. It had taken weeks to convince himself that the foxy angel of mercy was only a figment of his imagination.

That had to be it. He must be suffering from a concussion. Cynthia and the swirling colours and the phasers were delusions constructed by his subconscious to fill in the gaps in his memory.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You were found in an elevator in the McPherson building."

"The McPherson building! Where's that?" Kurt asked, eager for some clue as to where to retrieve his Trekker, still parked on #126 with the keys in it. That is, unless Mr. Tweed Jacket or Ms. Blue Suit had decided to make off with it. But they were figments of his imagination -- weren't they?

The nurse patted his shoulder. "It will all come back. Just give it a little time." She hung the clipboard on the foot of the bed. "Try to get some rest. A doctor will be here to talk to you in a little while."

She turned to go. "Wait!" Kurt said. "The other ones -- how are they?"

"There was no one else," she said gently. "You were alone."

Kurt watched the heavy door swing closed behind her. For all he knew, Tweed Jacket and Blue Suit were right outside, phasers at the ready. They must have managed to escape before the rescue squad arrived.

He shook his head. No! Those two did not exist. The doctor who was coming to see him was most likely a shrink. No sense making things worse by babbling about imaginary people.

Kurt sat up, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. He had no time to be observed by medical experts. He had to find his Trekker and get back to Melissa. But first, he needed something more substantial to wear than a backless hospital gown.

He scanned the tiny room. A bathrobe, a lab coat, anything that would make him presentable --

He saw a narrow metal door in the wall near the foot of the bed. A locker! That had to be where his clothes were.

Carefully, Kurt eased himself off the gurney. His legs began to tremble, his vision clouded, and he couldn't even recall the two-times table.

He launched himself towards the locker. Four steps, just four steps. I think I can, I think I can... He leaned against the wall until his head stopped spinning and pulled open the door.

The locker was empty except for a stethoscope and some crumpled paper.

Damn! Not even a pair of slippers!

He took a tentative step away from the wall. Much better. His sense of balance was returning.

He walked to the room door and eased it open a crack. About forty feet away, at the end of the wide corridor, he could see a waiting room with a handful of patients and a glass enclosure with a triage nurse and four clerical workers. There had to be a door to the outside. Perhaps he could slip out, fade into the crowd.

"Get real," he muttered to himself. Even if he made it out of the hospital, he wouldn't get far with a bare ass.

A laundry cart was parked at the side of the corridor, only six or seven feet away. He looked at it longingly. What were his chances of finding something wearable without being spotted?

The intercom blared. Medical personnel materialized from all directions. A gurney pushed by two firemen thundered down the corridor towards him. A lab-coated woman was kneeling astride the patient, administering CPR and shouting orders in time with her compressions. The double door labelled Cardio Treatment was flung open, and everyone crowded in.

Kurt launched himself into the deserted corridor and began pawing through the contents of the laundry cart. Sheets, hospital gown, sheets, pillow cases, more sheets -- damn it, didn't anybody ever get their clothes dirty around here?

At last, at the bottom, something stiff and green. Pants and a top. A scrub suit. He yanked it out and retreated into his room. There was a large, irregular blood stain down the front of the shirt, like a map of South America.

He hesitated. What if it was HIV positive? No matter – it would take him ten or fifteen years to get sick, and they might have a cure by then. If he stayed here, he could die a lot sooner.

Cool and casual, he told himself as he stepped into the hall. Like I belong here. If I just look normal, no one will notice my bare feet.

He pushed the laundry cart down the corridor, away from the waiting room, keeping his mind firmly focused on the five-times table. A doctor and two nurses passed without giving him a second glance.

He spotted a shoe rack beside one of the doors. He halted, picked up a pair of dirty runners, and tossed them on top of the laundry. A right turn brought him to an unoccupied alcove with four chairs in it.

He parked the cart and forced himself to take a couple of deep, relaxing breaths before he sat and pulled on his new footwear. The runners were at least an inch and a half too long. He laced them as tightly as he could and turned back towards the waiting room, feeling as conspicuous as Bozo the Clown.

His scalp prickled as he passed Treatment Room 3, where he had been. The nurse who had tended him was striding briskly down the hall in his direction.

Kurt's muscles tensed. Where could he hide? It was too late to slip back into the treatment room. If she recognized him, there would be hell to pay. They would tie him up and make him stay until Melissa died of old age. Twenty is four times five. Keep walking, look straight ahead, pretend not to notice her. Sixteen is four times four. Chances are she won't make the connection. She's never seen me on my feet, only lying down.

The pink-clad figure sailed past him and turned into Treatment Room 5. Obviously, she didn't realize that she had lost a patient. Kurt finished the four-times table and marched into the waiting room.

As he had suspected, there was an entrance only a few feet away. Automatic sliding doors opened before him, and he stepped into the welcoming sunlight. Bye, bye, Bill Curtis. No one would ever know.

He walked across the parking lot, towards the sidewalk on the other side. The street was teeming with six lanes of traffic. This had to be a major thoroughfare. But where? What he wouldn't give for a city map and some bus tickets!

He fell in step beside a motherly-looking woman. "Excuse me, ma'am. Which way is it to the McPherson building?"

"Never heard of it!"

Kurt sighed. Megatrex would have asked some gorgeous broad, and she would have insisted on giving him a ride in her Ferrari, conveniently parked just a few feet away, but he wasn't Megatrex. Today could be a very long day.

  EPISODE SEVEN: INTO THE TWILIGHT ZONE

Kurt grinned exultantly. Something was finally going right.

After some two hours of walking and inquiring, he had found the McPherson building. And, among the acres of parked cars, trucks and vans, his Trekker was still sitting in spot #126. He started to jog, tripping over his elongated toes.

As he closed on his target, his steps slowed. What if it was a trap?

Mr. Tweed Jacket or some other goon of the swirling lights club could be lying in wait. They were probably figments of his traumatized imagination, but it was best to be sure. No way was he going to let himself get suckered again.

He changed direction, veering past the Trekker as casually as he could, peering into the back seat out of the corner of his eye. It appeared to be deserted.

Kurt made a bee-line for the driver's side.

The door opened easily. No suspicious noises or explosions. His keys were dangling from the ignition. Everything was just as he left it, except for the yellow cat sitting on the driver's seat.

Kurt froze. This was a very large yellow cat, on the scruffy side, with a huge plume of a tail and ears that looked like they had been chewed. The flattened bull-dog face was lit by intense yellow eyes. It was the cat Kurt remembered -- or dreamed -- sitting on his chest in the elevator.

"We have been monitoring your progress," the cat said. "You are very resourceful."

This is it, Kurt thought. I've gone completely over the edge, or what some people are saying is right, and cats are taking over the world.

The cat got up in a single fluid motion, stretched, and moved over to the passenger seat. "Please get in. I will explain." The voice was similar to the disembodied voice that had interrogated him in the penthouse office -- overly precise and somehow surreal, with a subtly foreign intonation.

"Please get in," the cat repeated. Kurt was too fascinated to do anything else.

"Your wallet is in the glove compartment," the cat told him. "We retrieved it in the elevator."

Kurt started the engine, trying to imagine how a cat would go about carrying his overstuffed wallet.

"I have to get out of here," he said. "If those people find me--"

"Don't worry. Their base has been neutralized."

"Neutralized? What about the man in the tweed jacket...?"

"Gone. The other human operatives as well."

"Gone? Just like that?" Kurt asked incredulously.  

"We are at war." Yellow Cat's voice was devoid of emotion, as if war were an everyday occurrence.

Kurt stared at his passenger. "The cats of the world are at war?"  

"I am not a cat. This is an encounter suit."

"An encounter suit? As in a space alien encounter suit?"

"Not space. We come from the bottom of the sea."

"The earthquake...?" Kurt breathed, his heart pounding. Insane as the whole thing was, it was starting to make sense.

"We were widening the fissures to increase our food supply."

"Food supply?"

"Our biology is sulphur-based."

"Ah!" Kurt remembered seeing something on the Learning Channel suggesting that the earliest life on planet Earth was not carbon-based, but born of sulphur-rich emissions from the earth's core. Whatever was animating this cat was both inventive and well-informed.

Sometime during this astonishing conversation, the Trekker had stalled. Kurt played with his car keys, trying to strategize his next move. Should he try to start the engine, push the yellow cat out of the vehicle, and find his way back to the vet's? Or should he play along, find out what he could?

"Take me to the one you call Melissa," Yellow Cat ordered.

"Melissa?" He should have known. "Why does everybody want Melissa?"

"She is our leader."

"You mean to tell me Melissa is the queen of the cat people from the bottom of the sea?" Kurt sat back in his seat. This was just too rich. Any minute, he would wake up, vowing never to pig out on salami at bed time again.

"She is the leader of the Expansionist Faction," Yellow Cat said. "If the Conservatives manage to capture her, her first minister will do whatever they dictate."

"If that's so, why didn't she explain that to me?"

"She is wearing a shielded encounter suit for greater safety. She can only watch humans, not communicate with them."

"And what was she doing in my car?"

"She was visiting the surface to inspect our operative bases. We were attacked. She must have taken refuge in your vehicle."

Kurt whistled softly. "Welcome to the Twilight Zone."

"Twilight Zone is an unfamiliar expression. Please re-phrase."

"Never mind. It's just a stupid TV program. You say your Expansionist Party wants to rule the surface?"

"Not rule. Share. We have much to contribute to your civilization."

We come in peace. That's what aliens always say in the movies before they take over the Kremlin and the White House and blast the hero's car to smithereens.

He cleared his throat. "Are all your encounter suits in the form of cats?"

"Most of them. That life form is generally well-liked and allowed to pass without question."

"And your rivals, the Conservatives? What kind of suits do they wear?"

"Similar to ours. They stole the technology from us."

Kurt leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Maybe the whole thing was an elaborate practical joke. But what possible point could there be? Maybe a toy company was demonstrating the life-likeness of its creations

No -- too far-fetched. The amount of planning and technology required to pull it off was just too much. The dream/hallucination theory was starting to wear thin, too. This had been going on too long, without any of the abrupt shifts in scene and personnel that his dreams had.

That left only one possibility: Melissa was in terrible danger. She had to be found and returned to her natural habitat at the bottom of the ocean before it was too late.

"Is Cynthia one of you?"

The cat rumbled to himself for a moment. "We have no operative named Cynthia."

That meant that she was a Conservative. But so, it seemed, were Tweed Jacket and Blue Suit and all the other operatives in the McPherson building base which had been so instantly and conveniently neutralized. It didn't add up. Someone was lying.

"Please help us take our leader home." Yellow Cat said.

Kurt sighed. "I'll take you to her. Do you know the way to Douglas Street?"

I just hope I'm doing the right thing, he thought as he pulled out of the parking lot.

EPISODE EIGHT: SUPERCATS FROM ATLANTIS

"I tried to locate the microchip," Dr. Hamblin said, "but I didn't find anything even remotely resembling one. I tried to X-ray her. Blank. She's completely impervious. This is some sort of cyborg, not an animal. There is a pathway where her throat should be, but no other orifices."

Kurt felt distinctly jealous of the vet, who was cradling Melissa on his chest. He opened the door of his pet taxi.

"I'm sorry for the trouble we've caused. Just put her in here and we'll be on our way." Kurt hoped it wasn't going to cost a fortune. He hadn't paid the July rent yet, and August was more than half over.

Dr. Hamblin held Melissa tighter and stroked her, a look of idiotic contentment on his face. "You'd better leave her with me for a few days." The vet tucked Melissa under his chin and kept stroking. "I have to run some more tests. She's exuding some sort of transdermal substance -- it seems to have mind-altering properties."

"No more tests," Kurt said firmly.

"I'll buy her. Five hundred dollars."

Here we go again, Kurt thought. "No."

"A thousand. It's for science."

"No, thank you. Put her in her carrier, please."

"I'll walk to reception with you," Dr. Hamblin said, putting his ear against Melissa's stomach. "Purring, are we, dearie?"

Kurt held the door open for him with one hand, clutching his pet taxi with the other. On his way in, he had seen two women with dogs, and an old man with a bird cage. Surely, Dr. Hamblin wouldn't refuse to return Melissa in front of witnesses!

When they emerged into the waiting room, the receptionist smiled beatifically. "Oh -- there she is!" She emerged from her cubicle and started scratching Melissa's head. "How are you, sweetums?"

Kurt looked impatiently through the glass door onto the parking lot. Yellow Cat was standing guard, his front paws braced on the steering wheel of the Trekker. A station wagon had pulled up on the passenger side. The rear door was open, and a man in jogging gear was snapping a leash on a German shepherd. Two steps, and they would be at the clinic door.

Kurt pushed the pet taxi against the vet's waist. "Better put her in now," he said sharply, "before-- --"

The man with the shepherd was already pulling at the door, bracing it open for his dog.

Melissa exploded into action. She squirmed sideways out of the vet's grip, scrambled over the top of the pet taxi, and launched herself towards the open door. She landed on top of the shepherd. The dog squealed and leaped into the air, tangling his owner with the leash. Melissa hit the sidewalk in overdrive.

"Melissa!" Kurt yelled and charged to intercept. He stumbled over the dog, slammed his pet taxi into the door jamb, and crashed into the dog's owner. Gasping a perfunctory 'sorry', he pushed the man aside and emerged just in time to see Melissa jump off the curb at the far end of the strip mall. She tried to scramble over the chainlink fence that separated the parking lot from a housing development, then fell back to the ground.
Yellow Cat leaped out of the Trekker in a long, graceful arc and bore down on Melissa, who was desperately pushing against the bottom of the fence.

"Stop!" Kurt screamed, dropping his pet taxi and sprinting after them with Olympic speed. Yellow Cat launched himself through the air and landed on Melissa, grabbing the scruff of her neck. Kurt was right behind. He grabbed the bushy yellow tail in both hands and jerked.

The tail came off in Kurt's hands, but not before Yellow Cat lost his grip. Melissa managed to roll out from under him and squirm through a hole in the fence, leaving her jeweled collar hanging from a wire. Yellow Cat surged forward and barged through the hole like a tank, increasing its size considerably. Still clutching the tail, Kurt watched Melissa disappear behind a row of townhouses with Yellow Cat only inches behind.

"Well -- I guess I called that one wrong," Kurt muttered as he gently disengaged the Melissa's collar from the wire. Whoever Yellow Cat was, Melissa did not consider him an ally.

Kurt walked back to the Trekker, tail in one hand, collar in the other. The driver's side window was completely down. He had left it open a crack for ventilation before he locked the doors, but certainly not enough for a cat to squeeze through. Somebody must have tampered with it -- unless he chose to believe that Yellow Cat had the strength and dexterity to turn the crank.

"Curiouser and curiouser," he muttered disgustedly as he dropped the tail and collar onto the passenger seat. There was no sign of blood on the tail. A dozen wires, fine as cobwebs, dangled from severed end. Yellow Cat was a very sophisticated piece of technology: there was no limit to the capabilities he might have. He might even be fitted with lethal weapons.

Kurt retrieved his pet taxi from the sidewalk and tossed into the back seat. Dr. Hamblin and the receptionist were standing on the sidewalk, staring in the direction Melissa and Yellow Cat had gone. They made no move to stop him when he threw the Trekker into reverse, roared out of his parking slot, and laid rubber in the direction of the housing development. The squeal of his tires gave him a momentary sense of power. At least his puny engine could show some pep in the lower gears.

After several attempts, Kurt found the mouth of the crescent where the cats had disappeared. He drove through the labyrinth of townhouses a dozen times, calling Melissa's name. Children interrupted their play to stare at him curiously. He stopped to talk to some of them, and collected a treasury of anecdotes about the feline population of the neighbourhood, but no clues about the whereabouts of Melissa or Yellow Cat.
An hour later, he returned to the strip mall and parked in front of Jack's Coffee Stop, right next to the fence that enclosed the housing development. Maybe if he kept still, Melissa would come to him.

He opened his glove compartment. His wallet was there with everything intact, just as Yellow Cat had said. Kurt stepped into the store for a sub and a large cappuccino, brought them to the Trekker, rolled down the passenger side window just in case Melissa showed up, and thought furiously as he ate.

All right, he told himself, let's pretend this is a role-playing game. "Supercats from Atlantis". How would agent Megatrex handle this?
Kurt closed his eyes, concentrating, merging with Megatrex, his game-playing alter ego, strong, fearless, and infinitely resourceful. This was the ultimate challenge -- no re-sets allowed.

The feline cyber-creatures from Atlantis had two warring factions: the Expansionists and the Conservatives. Both wanted Melissa for their own purposes. All he had to do was figure out who the good guys were and ally himself with them. Together they would save the world. That's what it all came down to in the games: fighting evil, defending good, and setting everything straight in one glorious final battle. Now he had a chance to do it in real life.

He shook his head. Maybe there was no good and evil this time. Maybe both sides were trying to do what was best for their people, overstepping ethical boundaries in the process, thinking the end justified the means.

Damn! After years of fantasizing, he finally had the chance to make a difference, and he couldn't even tell the good guys from the bad guys. Not that it mattered. Melissa had been his ace in the hole. Now that she was gone, nobody could care less about Kurt Askall.

No self-pity, he lectured himself as dusk began to gather around him. Megatrex never wastes time agonizing, because he always knows what to do and does it. There has to be something I can do.

Cynthia! He stiffened. I can contact Cynthia. For a few delicious seconds, he allowed himself to re-live the incredible sensations of the VR booth, then yanked himself back to cold reality. He walked to the pay phone in front of the Coffee Stop and ruffled through the phone book, peering at its pages by the light streaming from inside.

Dave's Tattoo Parlour and Fantasy Broker ... yes, it really existed. He took a quarter out of his wallet and made the call.

"I want to talk to Cynthia, please," he told the gruff male voice who answered.

"Cynthia? Ain't no Cynthia here. Never was."

Kurt was about to thank him politely and hang up. Then he remembered Megatrex the Invincible.

"Listen up," he growled. "You take this message down and give it to her, or she'll have both your ears. You hear me?"

There was no answer, but Kurt thought he could detect respect in the way the man breathed.

"You tell her this is Kurt, and I want to see her, IN PERSON. You got that? In person. Tell her to be at the Ogden Point Café at one o'clock tomorrow afternoon. If she's nice and tells me what I need to know, I might even buy her lunch."

He slammed down the phone and stalked back to the Trekker. The decisive approach always worked for Megatrex.

He reached over to roll up the passenger side window, and stopped in mid-crank. On the floor were not one, but two cats.

His hopes leaped, then plummeted. Neither of them was Melissa. One was Yellow Cat, unmistakeably tailless. The other, considerably smaller, was black with white socks.

"Okay," Kurt snapped, "Start explaining, or get out of my car."

Yellow Cat jumped onto the seat and sat on his detached tail. "I have already explained everything."

"Why did Melissa run away?" Kurt demanded. "You said you were going to help her!"

"She misunderstood my intentions."

"Sure," Kurt said sarcastically, knowing the inflection would be lost on Yellow Cat. "So how do we find her?"

"We will set up a search operation. We will co-ordinate it from your apartment."

"No pets allowed in my building," he said automatically, then berated himself for being such a wimp. Megatrex would never worry about lease agreements.

"We will hide in your luggage," Yellow Cat said matter-of-factly. "Our government will compensate you."

"How about a couple of thousand up front so I can catch up my rent?" Kurt challenged.

"It will be arranged."

I'll believe it when I see it, Kurt thought. All talk and no action, just like my sex life.

"If we're going to be room-mates," he said in his best Megatrex manner, "perhaps you could begin by telling me your names."

 EPISODE NINE: GENERAL AJAX, EINSTEIN, AND A GIFT FROM CYNTHIA

Kurt rolled over and stared at his alarm clock. Ten-thirty! He had slept until ten-thirty, and he still felt exhausted.

"Good thing I still have three days off, huh, Melissa?" he murmured. But there was no cat sleeping at the foot of his bed.

He tensed as the memories from the day before flooded over him. Memories -- or dreams?

I'm going to get up and walk calmly into my living room. Melissa will be sitting there waiting for me, and everything will be back to normal. I'll take a pee and a shower, and figure out what to do about breakfast. And no more video games after midnight.
One step, two, three, four, out the door -- see how easy it is? Around the corner now, and everything will be --

"Holy shit!"

His new roomies had been busy. His television, his telephone, and his Gamestation were in various stages of disassembly. The contents had been dumped from his metal magazine rack, which had become the base for an outrageous electronic sculpture. White Socks Cat (human contact designation Einstein) was spread-eagled on top of the mass of components, hooked up to a dozen wires, looking like the poster cat for a ban animal testing campaign. Yellow Cat (hcd General Ajax) was sitting on his haunches, his tail re-attached, making adjustments with surprisingly agile
paws. An assortment of miniature tools was floating within easy reach.

General Ajax turned his head in Kurt's direction, skewering him with his yellow eyes. "Where is your computer?"

"My computer?" Kurt asked dazedly, staring at the wreckage of his Gamestation. "I don't have a computer."

"You must go and buy one."

"Okay," Kurt answered, unable to come up with a suitably sarcastic response. "Right after I pee."

* * *

She's not coming. I should have known.

Kurt twisted his coffee mug in his hand. Megatrex always got results by talking tough. But he wasn't Megatrex.

He looked at his watch again. Ten after two. He had been sitting on the terrace of the Ogden Point Café since five minutes after one, hoping against hope.

Just one more refill. Then I give up.

He had spent his waiting time analyzing his situation as dispassionately as he possible. What could he have done differently?

Maybe he should have asked for Jenny instead of Cynthia. At least he knew Jenny was an actual person, not a computer construct. But Cynthia had made such a profound impression on him that he was ready to sell his soul to make her his own. How could he feel so strongly attached to a
lifeless machine? There had to be a living, breathing woman behind the virtual fantasy.

He made his way back inside the restaurant, looking eagerly around for someone who might be Cynthia. It was useless, of course -- he had no way of knowing what she looked like. She could be one of the teen-agers wolfing down cheese cake, or the blue-haired senior sipping blueberry tea in the corner. But surely his gut would tell him if she were near. Megatrex always knew those things.

She wasn't on the terrace, unless she had disguised herself as one of the three construction types in football jackets swapping stories over their beers. The day was overcast, too cool for most people to sit outside. Despite his lined squall jacket and the endless cups of hot coffee, Kurt was chilled to the bone.

Two cats, one calico, one dirty white, ears cocked alertly, insinuated themselves onto the terrace. Kurt's first thought was that they must be spies from the Conservative faction, possibly even assassins. But their only objective was the half-serving of quiche that had slid from a plate the waitress was clearing away.

That's enough, Kurt lectured himself. Cybernetic cats don't eat. You're getting paranoid.

On the other hand, perhaps paranoia was the only appropriate response to the shock of sharing his apartment with a pair of talking cats who could disassemble and re-assemble electronic equipment, procure prepaid credit cards, and deposit money in his bank account.

His chequing account balance that morning was $5,023.19 -- five thousand more than after his previous visit to the bank machine. After he stopped shaking, Kurt paid off his credit card and withdrew $500, half-expecting a security person to appear and ask him what he was doing. Once safely back in his vehicle, he stashed half the money inside the owner's manual in the glove compartment, put the rest in his wallet, and went computer shopping. The credit card the cats had provided was accepted without comment. A state-of-the-art machine complete with hi-tech peripherals was now sitting in the back of his Trekker. He had dickered for some software just in case the cats were actually planning to use the computer as intended instead of dismantling it for one of their wierdo construction projects.

While he was in the supermarket stocking up on groceries, Kurt suddenly remembered his call to Dave's Tattoo Parlor, demanding a rendezvous with Cynthia. Those crazy cybercats, not to mention the adrenaline rush of computer shopping, had completely distracted him from his own agenda.
Kurt glanced at his watch. It was twelve-thirty five. He had twenty-five minutes to get to the Ogden Point Café, which was about a thirty minute drive away. Not that he really expected Cynthia to show up, but just in case she did, he wanted to be there.

He had abandoned his grocery cart in the store aisle and sprinted to the Trekker. He pushed the speed limit and ran every yellow light to get to the Ogden Point Café in time. Even though it was now over an hour later and it was obvious that Cynthia wasn't coming, he couldn't bring himself to leave.

A massive black motorcycle roared through the parking lot and stopped at the edge of the terrace. Kurt tensed again. Cynthia? No -- the rider looked too big to be a woman.

The biker pulled off his helmet, exposing a wilderness of auburn curls. It was the tattoo artist from Dave's.

Kurt put his mug down. News at last, or was he in serious trouble?

The bear-like man dismounted and opened the storage compartment behind the seat. He picked up a cardboard box about the size of a city phone book and slammed the compartment shut. He held it in one hand as he leaped lightly up onto the terrace and stepped up to Kurt's table.

"Askall?"

Kurt nodded.

"From Cynthia." The biker dropped the box onto the table in front of Kurt and strode back to his bike.

Kurt remained perfectly still until his visitor was out of sight. Then, carefully, he picked up the box and began to walk towards the ocean. Whatever surprises Cynthia's gift brought him, he wanted to be alone.

At least it wasn't ticking.

For a crazy moment, he wondered if Cynthia was hidden inside in her alien form. He imagined her as a small violet-coloured shrimp being -- or would she be yellow, because of the sulphur base?

The box started playing a ragtime tune.

Kurt jumped, then stood still. What was going on?

After a breathless minute, he realized that he was being summoned by a cell phone. He stepped off the path, sat cross-legged in the dry grass, and tore open the box.

"Hello?" Despite his valiant effort to be casual, he knew that he sounded breathless.

No answer. The phone kept playing. Kurt searched for an ON button and pressed it.

"Hello!" he said again, almost shouting.

"Kurt!" the voice said appealingly. Kurt's hormones began to churn. It was Cynthia, all right. The entrancingly passionate CyberCynthia in the booth at Dave's.

"I told you to come in person," he said as forcefully as he could manage.

"That is impossible without my encounter suit. You must help me get it back. Please."

"Your encounter suit?"

"Yes. What you call Melissa -- that is my encounter suit."

Kurt struggled to make sense of the information.

"How did you lose it?" he asked.

"I was about to enter it when we were attacked. The suit is programmed to find shelter in case of danger. It found you."

Kurt felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. Melissa -- he was supposed to believe that Melissa was nothing more than a lost machine on autopilot? Just a hollow shell with no personality, no love?

"Please help me," Cynthia pleaded.

"I can't," he said roughly. "I don't know where she is." No matter what the facts were, he could never call Melissa "it".

"The ones in your apartment are my enemies. Do not surrender Melissa to them."

Whoever Cynthia was, she had been following his activities closely. He wondered what she knew about the McPherson building explosion. The newspaper said it was still "under investigation", possibly a natural gas disaster. There had been no deaths or injuries other than a mild concussion suffered by one William Curtiss, 23, who appeared to have wandered off in a post-traumatic daze and was still being sought by the police. There was no mention of anyone who fit the description of Tweed Jacket or Ms. Blue Suit.

"What makes you think I'll find Melissa when all that equipment of yours can't come up with anything?"

"She is shielded and cannot be found electronically. She will come to you. Call me on this telephone. 250-555-9972."

Kurt remained silent.

"Please help me," Cynthia said again, with an irresistible note of pathos.

Kurt took a ballpoint from his jacket pocket and scribbled the number on the back of his hand. "250-555-9972. All right."

He turned off the phone and lay back on the grass, overwhelmed by a sense of loss. Melissa -- his precious Melissa -- was a technical device, nothing more.

Or maybe not. Maybe Cynthia was lying. Maybe Cynthia was a technical device programmed to ensnare him.

Maybe everyone was lying.

"What in the hell am I supposed to do?" Kurt asked the seagulls floating against the leaden sky. Megatrex never had to deal with anything like this.

  EPISODE TEN: ESCAPE FROM CYBERCAT CENTRAL

Kurt suppressed a yelp when his ankle scraped metal. That damn equipment was everywhere! He moved his other foot forward cautiously, feeling for obstacles. If he stepped on one of the sleeping cyberfelines, he would have a lot of explaining to do.

He breathed more easily once he had negotiated the hall from his bedroom. The lights from the city illuminated the living room and kitchen. Good thing he had never been able to afford blackout drapes.

The cybercats' machine was pulsing with a gentle green light. The black and white tech cat was still wired into the system. Its external sensors were shut down during the interface, but its staring eyes seemed to be looking right at Kurt, reproaching him for his betrayal.

Two other cats, part of the contingent that had been coming and going, were sprawled on the floor, each with a paw fastened to a power bar, blinking red eyes indicating that they were recharging.

Megatrex would blow this mess up, Kurt thought. They couldn't follow me then. Unfortunately, I'm fresh out of explosives.  That was just as well. Even if General Ajax and Einstein turned out to be bad guys, he had developed a certain affection for them. After all, they had been roomies for three weeks. So what if he had to do without TV or video games and wrestle his couch onto the balcony to make room for their equipment: that wasn't grounds for the death penalty.

General Ajax was lying on the kitchen counter in rest mode. Kurt gently lay the apartment keys in front of his nose, and oozed towards the door. It opened noiselessly -- he had lubricated it with graphite before he went to bed. Kurt eased himself out, holding his duffle bag steady in front of him.

The lock clicked when he pulled the door shut. Kurt held his breath while he listened. There was no reaction from inside.

Kurt exhaled and tiptoed to the elevator. He was on his way to Saskatchewan at last.

All the loose ends were tied up. The apartment lease had been transferred to Mr. Cy Katts, sight unseen, with the help of a three hundred dollar bribe to Albert, the building manager. For a couple hundred extra, Albert had supplied the tenant's signature on the papers himself. Rent and utility payments were pre-authorized from one of the bank accounts controlled by General Ajax.

Kurt had left his job, discouraging further contact by announcing that he was moving to Montreal. He had been smuggling some of his personal items from the apartment to the Trekker every day. The cash stash in the Trekker's glove compartment had grown to over three thousand dollars. His bank account was closed and his library fines were paid in full. There was nothing left to do but drive away.

The parking lot beside the apartment tower was dark and deserted. Kurt checked his watch under a street light. Ten to four. He could afford to take his time. General Ajax always shut down shortly after midnight and sprang into active mode precisely at five. By then, Kurt and his Trekker would be at the ferry terminal.

Kurt opened the rear hatch and slid his duffel bag on top of the pile of stuff he had managed to salvage from the apartment without arousing suspicion. At least he wouldn't be coming home completely empty-handed. He had folded down the back seats to make room for his camping equipment, his outerwear, and his CDs. Most of his clothes were in a dirty green hockey equipment bag with a broken zipper. He had managed to rescue his boombox before Einstein dismantled it. His Gamestation had been assimilated into cybercat technology, but he was ready for the next generation anyway. All that really mattered was that he had more than enough cash to get him home.

He slammed the hatch down. It popped up again. He slammed harder, then realized that one of the straps of the hockey bag was caught in the lock. He pushed the strap out of the way and tried again. His hands were shaking.

Get a grip, he told himself sternly, and started the twelve-times table. After a minute of concentration, he snapped the hatch down with just the right amount of force, and the lock caught.

Kurt slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. Cynthia's cell phone was still lying on the passenger seat where he had tossed it. He longed to phone her, hear her dispassionate yet strangely sexy voice once more. He needed to vent, tell someone that he had enough of the scheming and counterscheming, that he was getting out. But her number had faded from the back of his hand long ago.

"Damn you, Cynthia," he said out loud, picking up the phone to toss it into the trash barrel. Then he reconsidered and stuffed it into his glove compartment. It might come in handy if he was ever able to afford a service contract.

He eased out of the parking lot and turned towards the first set of lights. He turned on the radio and started singing along with the music. Let Cynthia and Melissa work out their own problems. He was on his way home.

Two lights later, he stopped singing in mid-note. Instead of turning towards Sidney, he had automatically turned towards the strip mall where he had last seen Melissa.

He had been there every day since General Ajax and his cohorts took over his apartment, buying a large cappuccino at the Coffee Stop, cruising through the housing development, then continuing through the neighbourhood in ever-widening circles. The children had come to know his Trekker, and would pause in their play to greet him with a wave and a sad shake of the head.

Kurt considered reversing course, then shrugged. The first ferry of the day left Schwartz Bay at eight. There was no reason for him to sit on the parking lot for three hours. A cappuccino would be just the thing to get the day started properly. He was yawning already.

Once he picked up his drink, it seemed natural to make his usual tour of the neighbourhood. Felines were nocturnal -- maybe he would have a better chance of finding Mel while it was still dark. Despite everything, he still thought of her as a real cat.

After an hour of cruising, he parked at the little playground near the Coffee Stop and shut off the engine. He rolled down the driver's side window. If he started yelling Melissa's name at this hour in the morning, he would probably be arrested; but there was no harm in his remaining here quietly for a few minutes.

She will come to you, Cynthia had said. Cynthia was a liar, but he couldn't help clinging to the absurd hope that she was telling the truth for once. Mel had probably found her way back to her underwater base long ago. But there was no harm in waiting just a little longer . . . just a little longer.
He awoke with a start.  The sun was shining warm on his face, and children's voices chattered like a flock of birds in the distance.

He looked around wildly, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing here. Then a soft Mrrr and a push against his hand made everything else irrelevant.

"Melissa!"

He didn't allow himself the blissful distraction of touching her. He started the engine with shaking hands, scanning the neighbourhood for potentially hostile cyberfelines. "Let's get out of here, baby. They'll be looking for us."

Melissa was back. And nobody was going to take her from him this time.

  EPISODE ELEVEN: KURT AND THE PRINCESS

"Just leave everything to me," Kurt told Mel for the dozenth time. "We'll go up to Port Hardy, catch the ferry to Prince Rupert, and then drive home. It's out of our way, but there's a lot less traffic. They'll never think of looking for us there."

Kurt was lying on his back in Unit 6 of the Riverbend Motel in Port Alberni, wearing only his jockey shorts. Melissa was sprawled on his bare chest, giving him the full benefit of her euphorigenic powers. He was exhausted, but too wired to sleep.

His jeans lay on the floor, the left back pocket fat with his bulging wallet. He had divided his money into three piles: one for the glove compartment, one for his hockey bag, and one for his jeans. Wasn't what they said: divide and conquer? Maybe he was being paranoid, but he didn't want to take the chance of losing it all at once. Thanks to General Ajax (aka Yellow Cat) and his consortium, his credit card was paid off, and he wanted to keep it that way.

General Ajax! That was the fly in the ointment. His organization obviously had powerful resources. Just how far did they extend? Enough to watch all the ferries? Enough to track him here?

Kurt had spent the day peering into his rear-view mirror for possible shadows and sitting at gas stations poring over maps. Now that he had Melissa, he was an important target again. He had to devise the perfect plan.

The municipality of Port Alberni seemed big enough to offer him anonymity. Avoiding the major hotels, he had driven around back streets, searching for a place where his hypothetical pursuers would never think to look. When night fell and he was too tired to drive any more, he had checked into the Riverbend, paying in cash.

The Riverbend Motel was an L-shaped building with fourteen units, each with a back patio with plastic chairs and flowerpots. Other than a quick sortie for fast food, Kurt had not explored the neighbourhood.

On impulse, he had signed in as "William Curtiss," and had given a false address in Victoria. He began second-guessing almost immediately. What if the owner decided to check the license plates on his Trekker? What if the police had asked all innkeepers to be on the lookout for the missing Bill Curtiss? What if. . . ?

"We'll be out of here first thing in the morning," he promised Melissa. She licked his knuckles in approval.

He scratched her ears, murmuring baby talk. She was just as perfect as he remembered her. Not a hair out of place. Except for her new collar, studded with red jewels, it was as if she had never been lost.

Almost. Their reunion was not quite what he had dreamed. Her tinny purr seemed to have a different note to it, and her warm, loving aura was subtly changed. His memories of Mel had been coloured by his belief that she was a real cat. Now that he knew that she was only a machine -- perhaps a machine without any life inside whatsoever -- she seemed less substantial, less essential to his survival. But those feelings would pass. Their life together would be beautiful. It had to be.

Kurt pulled the bedspread over his legs and turned out the lamp on the bedside table. It was well past midnight. Maybe, if he closed his eyes and relaxed, he could sleep a few hours before daylight.

Melissa seemed to glow faintly in the dark. He ran his hands over her ears. "I wish you could talk like the others," he told her. "There's so much I want to ask you."

"What would you like to know?" Melissa said.

Electrified, Kurt sat up, groped for the switch on the bedside lamp, and turned it on.

Melissa had rolled off his chest and was sitting on the bedspread, looking as composed as ever.

"You can talk!" Kurt said.

"Of course. I've had plenty of time to repair the external communication circuits."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't want to interrupt." He could sense a grin in her voice. No machine would be capable of that!

"But --" Kurt said, "you talk just like a regular person. No accent or nothing."

"I received a lot of input from the couple that took me in. Both of them talked to me a lot -- it was better than the soaps on TV. Their four kids all talked to me too. They chipped in to buy me this collar. Real garnets." She moved her head back and forth, letting the light flash on the gems.

"You were in that housing development all the time, and nobody told me?"

"They kept me inside."

"How did you get away?"

"It wasn't that difficult. They have no screens on their windows."

"What took you so long? Didn't you realize I was worried?" Suddenly, he understood how his mother had felt during his teen-age years.

"It wasn't easy to contact my operatives. I lost long-range communications when I went through that fence. Do you have my collar?"
Kurt picked his jeans off the floor and fished the diamond collar out of the back pocket. "Isn't it dangerous to have long-range communications?" he asked as removed the garnet collar. "Somebody could intercept."

"Not easily," Mel said. "Our scramblers are pretty good." 

"General Ajax is going all out to find you. You wouldn't believe what they're building in my apartment!"

"That damn Ajax is always one step ahead of us," Mel said. "We've never managed to extradite him."

"He's not one of the good guys, I take it?"

"Anything but. He started out with organized crime, then moved into terrorism. Before our law enforcement could get their act together, he moved his operation to the surface."

"Are you really a princess?" Kurt asked, fastening the clasp of the diamond collar.

"In a manner of speaking. No real power -- I'm more like a sacred talisman. But I keep informed, just in case."

Kurt hung over the side of his bed, sliding the garnet collar into a pocket. "You're their sacred talisman -- and they let you risk your life on the surface?"

"It was just supposed to be a quick look around. Ajax's troops came out of nowhere in amphibious armoured personnel carriers. We didn't have a chance."

"And then?"

"They grabbed me with a grappling hook and took to the water. While they were disabling my communications array, one of our subs hit us with a torpedo. I swam to shore. Your hatch was open, so I crawled in."

"The McPherson building..."

"I saw the news report on TV. Too bad. That was our central base."

"What happened to the two operatives who nabbed me outside the Tattoo parlour?"

Melissa was silent, so he continued, "One was a big bear in a tweed jacket, and the other was a middle-aged blonde."

"I have no idea," Mel said. "They were just rent-a-thugs anyway. No great loss."

Kurt slid back and leaned against the headboard. He hadn't expected Melissa to be so callous about the possible death of two people. On the other hand, she was at war, and humans were probably as expendable to her species as cats were to his.

He was almost sorry that she could talk. It was good to get answers, but he was nostalgic for the old Mel of his fantasies. This new Mel was tough, resourceful, and devoted to her own agenda.

"What about Cynthia?" he asked. "What side is she on?"

"Cynthia? She's a fantasy program designed and maintained by Jennifer, a small-time independent operative. Jenny will sell herself and everything else to the highest bidder."

"Cynthia claims to be an undersea creature and that you are her encounter suit running on auto-pilot."

"Very creative, but impossible. Each suit is keyed to a single neurosystem. They are not interchangeable, and can't function independently. If their operator suffers irreversible damage, they self-destruct." Melissa stretched. "Are you ready to go?"

"Go? Go where?"

"To the ocean. I have to get home before Ajax pulls another one of his stunts."

Kurt sighed. Megatrex would end up with a gorgeous babe and the cat. But he wasn't Megatrex.

"That's a wicked switchback between here and there," he said. "I'd rather wait for daylight."

"How long?"

He looked at the clock radio beside the bed. "Six -- maybe seven hours."

"I want to go now," Melissa said imperiously.

"Whatever happened to please?" Kurt flashed back. Where did she get off taking him for granted? After all he'd done for her. . .

"Please," Melissa said. "You must realize how important this is."

"You disappear for three weeks -- and now, suddenly, it's so urgent you can't let me sleep?"

Mel eased into a prone position and put her head on her paws. "All right. Sleep if you must. I will wake you at dawn."

Kurt yanked at the bedding tucked under the mattress, and slid between the sheets without bothering to put on his pyjamas. He snapped out the light and lay on his back, wide awake.

He longed to pull Mel close, to immerse himself in her warm fur and purr, but it didn't seem right anymore. He started silently counting backwards from a thousand instead, slowly and deliberately, adjusting his breathing to match. He had to get some rest for the drive tomorrow.
The sooner Melissa was back in the ocean, the better. 

  EPISODE TWELVE: COMMANDO RAID

"I must have my cat. Now."

Cynthia's voice shocked Kurt into wakefulness like a pail of ice water. Quivering, he swung his feet over the side of the bed, groping for his jeans.
This was an emergency, and he didn't want to face it in his jockey shorts.

He had been asleep when the phone on the beside stand rang. He grabbed it automatically and grunted 'hello' before he remembered where he was.

How in the hell had Cynthia found him? More important, where was she calling from?

"I don't have your stupid cat," he said, receiver tucked between his jaw and shoulder as he battled with his fly zipper. "Just leave me alone. I don't know squat about what's going on, and I've had it." Somehow, he had to gain enough time to find a safe hiding place for Mel.

Melissa was standing on the small circular table by the window on her hind legs, her nose poked under the curtain. Kurt scooted across the bed as far as the phone cord would allow, still talking. "If you don't leave me alone, I'm calling 911. You can't get away with this --"

The phone cord popped out of its jack on the receiver, interrupting the conversation. Kurt rolled off the bed and delicately pulled back the corner of the curtain. He peered out at the row of parked cars. His Trekker seemed undisturbed, and all was quiet at the motel office.

"How in the hell did she find me?" he muttered, opening the curtain a little further to look towards the street. There was a big black motorcycle sitting on the sidewalk with its lights on.

"Holy shit!" Kurt breathed.

The rider got off and started walking towards Kurt's unit. A small grey shadow ghosted beside him. A cat! According to Mel, it couldn't be Cynthia, but there were plenty of operatives prowling earth's surface. Who could guess how many were lurking in the shadows?

Kurt grabbed the phone and re-connected the cord. "Cynthia, be reasonable," he begged.

There was no answer. The line was dead.

Mel had jumped off the table and scurried to the other side of the room.

"911 it is," Kurt said, slamming the receiver down. There was no dial tone when he picked it up again.

"Over here," Mel said in an undertone, her paw brushing the patio door.

Of course! If Cynthia didn't realize there was a back door, there was still a chance.

Kurt cracked the door open, leaving the night chain on just in case. Even before he satisfied himself that it was safe to leave, Melissa slipped out and melted into the shadows.

Kurt leaned against the door and tried to formulate a plan. Should he follow Melissa? Or should he stay and try to negotiate with Cynthia and her goon?

A heavy weight slammed against the door facing the parking lot, followed by the sound of breaking glass. "Open up!" a man's voice commanded. Kurt jumped onto the bed, pulled the bedspread over his legs, and tried to look nonchalant.

A small grey cat with fur like shorn velvet slipped through the hole in the window. "Do what Parker says. He has a disintegration pistol."

The cat spoke in a feminine voice similar to Cynthia's, but that didn't mean anything in this world of encounter suits and artificial voices.

"All right, all right," Kurt said soothingly, hoping against hope that Mel was out of range of their tracking sensors. "Just hold on a minute. No need to get all excited."

"Hurry," Grey Cat said. "Parker is not a patient man."

The door knob disappeared, leaving a charred circle. The screws holding the night chain ripped out of the wood. The biker stumbled into the apartment, unable to check his momentum.

"Parker, I presume," Kurt said, turning on the bedside light. The intruder was the same red-headed tattoo artist who had brought him the cell phone.
That damned cell phone! It must have had a tracking device in it. He had played right into Cynthia's devious electronic hands.

"Where's the cat?" Parker growled, poking Kurt's chest with his weapon.

"I keep telling you, there is no cat," Kurt said, trying to keep his voice level and remember the eleven times table at the same time.

"You left your apartment very early this morning," Grey Cat said, "and proceeded to a playground near the strip mall where she disappeared. Then you came here. You must have found her."

"I just wanted to get away," Kurt said. "I'm sick of all this cloak and dagger stuff."

"You are lying. Whatever reward she promised you, we can pay more."

Parker began yanking the drawers out of the night stand and dresser, throwing them down impatiently, while his feline companion investigated the bathroom.

"She may be in the toilet tank," she told Parker. "Take off the lid."

"That's crazy," Kurt said automatically. "Cats hate water." Even after everything that had happened, he had trouble absorbing the idea that Melissa was an alien being operating an amphibious machine that was merely a replica of a cat.

The tank cover crashed into the bathtub.

"Nothing," Parker said.

He stormed out of the bathroom. "Off the bed!" he ordered, waving the pistol and yanking the bedspread and blanket off the bed. Without waiting for
Kurt to comply, he grabbed the bed frame and proceeded to upend it. Kurt rolled onto the floor.

Grey Cat had discovered the patio door. "Parker! This way!"

"Just a minute. Gonna check under the bed first."

Parker was bent over, peering into the darkness under the bed, when Kurt hit him with one of the heavy wooden chairs.

The chair leg cracked satisfyingly as its corner caught Parker at the base of the skull. He collapsed onto the floor and stayed there.
Kurt stared down at the prone body. "All right!" he yelled, wishing he could high five somebody. He had finally done something Megatrex would do.

A sharp jab in his right ankle brought him back to reality. Grey Cat was charging at him, lightning shooting from her forehead.

Kurt howled. Dancing frantically to avoid her next shot, he scooped up the bedspread and threw it over her.

He launched himself on top of the lump under the material. For a split second, he worried about crushing her delicate body; then he remembered that this was not a feline, but an armed and dangerous alien. He grasped her firmly, rolling her over and over. Snatching up the wadded bedspread, he lunged for the bathroom, tossed it into the tub, and closed the door. Hopefully it would take her a while to free herself.

His adrenaline pumping, he picked up Parker's pistol and moved through the broken door onto the parking lot.

He gasped when he stepped onto the frigid cement. Should he go back for his duffel bag and his runners? He decided against it. Parker was a tough dude who could revive at any moment, and Kurt wasn't sure he had the nerve to shoot him. Besides, the police could arrive anytime.

No one seemed to have noticed the uproar so far, but two of the motel unit windows were lit behind their drapes. For all he knew, the occupants calling 911 this very moment. He steeled himself against the cold and walked towards the Trekker, fishing for his keys in the pocket of his jeans.

"No! Take the road hog!" a voice at his feet ordered.

"Mel!" Kurt's stomach melted.

She streaked towards the sidewalk and jumped onto the rear of the motorcycle seat. Kurt ran after her.

"Let's go!" she commanded.

"With this? You're crazy!"

"This is our best option, babe. If Cynthia could track us, so can Ajax. We have to split."

"I've never ridden anything but a dirt bike. We could wipe out! Come one -- we'll take the Trekker."

"We can't leave this for Parker. It's way faster than your four cylinder wonder, and you know it.  We'll have a head start because they have to hotwire it first."

Kurt fingered the pistol. "I could disintegrate the bike."

"Ajax is on his way. Get this machine moving now! "

"I say we take the Trekker," Kurt said stubbornly. Megatrex would never let himself be ordered around by a feline.

"Heads up!" Mel snapped. "It's Parker!"

Kurt glanced towards Unit 6. A shadow hulked in the doorway, backlit from the inside. Kurt's finger tightened on the trigger of the disintegration pistol, taking a big chunk out of the wall beside the door. The shadow disappeared.

"Let's go!" Melissa screeched.

Kurt picked up the helmet and straddled the leather seat, revving the engine, trying to recall the five-times table while he reviewed his options.
Parker reappeared, charging them at a dead run. The helmet fell from Kurt's hand and clattered onto the pavement. Kurt jammed the bike into gear and roared away with Melissa's claws dug into his waist. 

  EPISODE THIRTEEN: BATTLE AT THE T-JUNCTION

"Kick it up a notch, baby," Melissa yelled. "They're gaining on us."

Kurt gritted his teeth and opened the throttle. He was experiencing an acute need for a stunt double. Controlling a monster motorbike on a mountain switchback in the dark in bare feet was too much for him to handle, especially with a smart-mouthed feline peppering him with advice.

Mel had hooked her tail into his belt loop and was facing backward like a talkative rear-view mirror. She had usurped the position of mission commander without the slightest empathy for the fact that her underdressed crew was freezing to death.

Even though the night was calm and relatively warm, Kurt could no longer feel his feet. His bare chest was a mass of gooseflesh, and his eyes were stinging. He thought longingly of his hockey bag in the back of the Trekker, packed with warm clothes. At this moment, happiness was a warm fleece shirt, wool socks, and a leather jacket.

Mel's commentary revolved around the need for more speed. Help was on the way, she assured him. All they had to do was avoid capture until they could make contact with her government forces racing to the rescue. There was no way of knowing if either of the headlights behind them represented any threat, but she was convinced that Ajax was right on their tail.

"Serve you right if I pull off and just say no," Kurt growled.

"-- and I'll bet you anything they contacted Ajax the minute you left the motel, if not sooner -- did you say something?"

"Never mind." A reunion with Ajax might be even worse than his current predicament.

On the final descent towards the ocean, Mel screeched that their pursuers were gaining on them. Kurt eased the throttle open. He had no idea how fast he was going, but it felt as if he were about to take off into outer space at any moment. How in the world was he going to negotiate the turn towards Tofino at the T-junction? Maybe he should forget the highway and just barrel through to the beach. At least then he would know if the cars following them had hostile intent, or just happened to be travelling the same road.

Before he knew it, they were at the stop sign. In a high-speed chase game, stopping, or even slowing down, was not an option. Left, right, or full speed ahead cross-country to the ocean?

At the last breathless second, he wrenched the bike to the right. His foot slipped and brushed against the pavement, bringing sensation back with a vengeance. Melissa slid off the seat and dangled by her tail, her claws scrabbling wildly on his leg. He grabbed for her, forgetting to keep the handlebar steady, veering off over pavement, gravel, grass, one bump, then another. Then he was flying, rubber squealing somewhere, Melissa's stream of advice interrupted, crashing to earth, unable to think or breathe.

"It's Ajax!" Melissa shouted in his ear. "Use the pistol!"

Kurt's shoulder grated and blossomed into fiery pain as he felt his side pocket. "Gone."

Melissa's communicator crackled with a noise that was neither feline nor human. "Try to stall him," she advised before disappearing.

Kurt rolled over and managed to raise himself to all fours. The motorcycle lay some twenty feet away, its lights still shining. Maybe, if he could get to it. . . .

Two feline shadows leaped onto the machine. Ajax and his contingent -- if it was really Ajax -- had already found it. There was nothing Kurt could do
but run. Or hide. Neither seemed promising. Cats had night vision and keen smell, and could move faster than a human, especially an injured one. Who knew what their cybernetic counterparts were capable of?

Kurt tried to push himself to his feet. His injured shoulder knotted with pain, and his trembling arms refused to support his weight. He sat down, head swimming, tears in his eyes.

"Twenty-four is twelve times two; twenty-two is eleven times two; twenty is. . . ."

A pair of headlights drew his eyes to the left. One of the vehicles that had been following them came to a rolling stop at the T-junction and turned towards him.

The headlights swept through the darkness and illuminated an armoured truck beside the highway. Cats in bubble helmets and dark body armour were streaming from a hatch.

A ball of fire landed in the middle of the highway between the two vehicles and exploded, flooding the scene with temporary daylight. For a moment, Kurt thought that by some incredible coincidence, a meteorite had crashed. When a second fireball landed close to the first, he realized that the source was a cigar-shaped battle machine arriving from the direction of the beach.

The mystery civilian vehicle revved into a tight U-turn. The rear hatch popped open, and a muddy green hockey bag flew into the ditch.

Magically, Kurt found himself on his feet, his aches and pains forgotten. His Trekker! Parker and Grey Cat must have used it to follow them, just as Melissa had predicted.

He could hear the engine roar and the tires lay rubber. The next fireball set a tree on fire. Laser fire erupted in the ditch near the abandoned motorcycle, but Kurt ignored it. His attention was riveted on the tail lights of the Trekker.

"Waytogo Parker!" he cheered silently. That man was a magician, wringing every drop of power out of the undersized engine.

Kurt eyed the motorcycle, fantasizing about his next encounter with Parker and his feline cohort. If he could get the road hog running, he could catch up with them. They might be amenable to a trade. Now that Melissa had rejoined her troops, they had nothing to fight about.

The Trekker's tail lights were weaving back and forth. Evasive manoeuvres?

A fireball was closing in.

"NO!" Kurt yelled.

His Trekker -- his beautiful underpowered forest-green Trekker -- exploded spectacularly, along with his CDs, his camping equipment, his boom box, and the cash tucked into the owner's manual in the glove compartment. 

He wouldn't have to worry about being hassled by Parker or Grey Cat any more.

Kurt knees buckled. He lay on his belly, willing himself to sink into the ground and disappear. Metallic shadows spewed fireballs, laser fire, and a
dreadful screaming noise that might be a sonic weapon. Contingents of cats dashed through clouds of smoke, bushes disintegrated, and the sky tinged pink. Kurt began to shake uncontrollably. 

Abruptly, the battle ended. The vehicles sped away as quickly as they had arrived. A handful of abandoned feline forms flared up one by one and dematerialized, leaving black scorch marks behind.

The sun began to rise, its rays caressing Kurt's bare skin. He put his good hand on the ground and tried to get up. Everything hurt. He rolled over on his back and stared into the sky.

"Askall!"

Kurt sat up, forgetting the pain, and looked around. Nothing.

"Askall! Heads up!"

His back pocket was talking to him.

He pulled out his wallet. "Hello?"

"Hurry, Kurt. I need you."

Wincing, Kurt dug deeper and extracted the garnet cat collar Melissa was wearing when she found him. So much for the touching story about the four children who chipped in to buy it.

"Where are you?" he asked the collar.

"Culvert. Beside the stop sign." The voice was growing fainter. Kurt began to run.

He had to wriggle into the three-foot metal pipe to get to her. He was grateful for the poor lighting, because he had no stomach to see the details of Mel's fragmented body.

"Don't worry. I'll get you out of here," he said, because that's what Megatrex would say.

"The collar."

"I'll hide you until your people come for you. Everything will be all right."

"Take my collar, dumbo! Then get out. I'm going to self-destruct in ten."

"No!!"

"Nine ... eight ..."

"Please -- there has to be another way!"

"... six ... five ... MOVE IT! ... three ..."

Kurt scrabbled backwards, yanking the collar over Mel's head. He barely managed to throw himself to one side before the mouth of the culvert belched flame.

He sat staring at the gems in the collar. "Good-bye, Melissa," he whispered.

"What in the hell happened here?"

Startled, Kurt looked up. A pick-up truck had stopped for the stop sign. The passenger, a dark-skinned teen with his elbow hanging out of the window, was staring at the mess that had been the Tofino highway.

Kurt struggled to his feet. "I dunno. I was just going to the beach to jog."

"We'll call it in when we get to Ucluelet," the older female driver said, peering around her companion.

"Don't bother! I already called the police on my cell phone," Kurt said, patting his fat back pocket.

"Where's your car?" the woman asked with a trace of suspicion in her tone.

"Motorbike. Over there." Kurt gestured. "I wiped out."

The teen nodded understandingly. "Bad turn if you're in a hurry. Need a ride?"

"No thanks. I'm fine."

The truck was already rolling. Kurt breathed a sigh of relief as it receded. Even if they decided to call 911, it would be at least half an hour before anyone arrived at the scene.

Kurt shoved Mel's collar into his jean pocket and limped towards the scene of the Trekker explosion. He found nothing but half a license plate and a bright red piece of cloth that might have been Parker's bandanna.

  EPISODE FOURTEEN: GOING HOME

Kurt stepped gingerly into the ditch beside the highway at the T-junction. He had to get away from the scene of the battle before someone started asking awkward questions, but how far would he get with no shirt or shoes?

His hockey bag looked unscathed. Despite the broken zipper, nothing had fallen out. He grabbed the warm fleece bunnyhug lying on top and pulled it over his head.

"Mrrr."

Kurt froze in mid-movement.

Don't be crazy. I just saw her die.

He yanked the bunnyhug down, freeing his head. A bedraggled cat was sitting on the hockey bag.

"Mel!" he breathed, picking her up. She was dirty and part of one ear was missing, but her aura of love was just as he remembered it.

"The other Mel was a decoy! I should have twigged ... she wasn't you, never could have been. ..."

The cat mrrred and butted against his chin.

"That's why the other Mel wanted to wear your collar! If we had been disintegrated, you would have been officially dead, and they would stop looking for you."

No wonder Mel had insisted on being so obviously visible. She was using herself as bait.

"Stupid Parker and Cynthia!" he said, hugging Mel close. "They almost got you blown up!"

Mel mrrred again and rubbed the side of her face along his upper arm. He stroked her, letting her warmth soak through him. Yes, this was the real one, the one who understood him. He carefully put her down beside his bag and sat down.

"Just let me get some shoes on, Your Highness, and we'll get you home."

Now that he had seen the cybercats in action, he knew that he could never keep her safe. She had to be returned to the ocean, where she belonged.
"Oww!" His left sock had gone on easily, but his right foot hurt was still oozing from the laser burn and scraped raw from its encounter with the pavement.

"How am I supposed to pull a high-top on over that?" Kurt asked the universe, surveying the damage. This was going to hurt.
Melissa moved closer to his damaged foot.

"No!" Kurt yelped, jerking his foot away. Mel had begun licking the scraped area. That was all he needed -- a cat's rough tongue to make the pain even worse.

"Mrrr?" Mel said.

"I know you want to help, Mel, but just stay back. Please."

"Mrrr." Melissa closed in and started licking again.

Kurt reached out to pull her away, then stopped. The pain was much better.

"Okay -- why not?" he said, relaxing. If Melissa's saliva contained an analgesic, he was all for it.

Ten minutes later, his foot felt as good as new. Except for a pink patch on his skin, all signs of damage had disappeared.

"Wow," he said, pulling on his right sock. "I didn't realize you carry a medical kit."

While he was lacing his runners, he fantasized about how wonderful it would be to have Mel with him forever.

"You'd better get into the bag again," he told her. "Just in case somebody's watching."

Melissa crawled into the bag. He covered her with a T-shirt. Before he picked up the bag, he hesitated. Which would it be? The highway or the beach? 

 Ajax would never find them in Saskatchewan. Or would he?

With a sigh, Kurt picked up his load and started hiking towards the beach. Melissa was too important to become a household pet.

He was sweating by the time he reached the sand. He set the bag beside a driftwood log and sat down. Melissa emerged from the bag and jumped up beside him.

"This is it, Mel," he said, scratching her chin. "You are the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me."

She rubbed her jaw against his fingers.

"You get down there and straighten those Expansionist guys out," he instructed. "There must be a way for all of you to work together."

He stroked her back. "I wouldn't mind having your people on the surface, you know. Just as long as you're not in the middle of a civil war."

She was silent.

"Well -- if you do come to the surface, come and visit me, okay? Look for me in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, two provinces east of here."

"Mrrr."

He picked her up and put her on the sand facing the ocean. "This is it. Go home."

Melissa didn't move.

"Go!" he said, more insistently, pushing her gently with his foot. If this went on any longer, he was going to cry, just like some sappy Disney movie.
Melissa jumped onto the log again.

"No -- you have to go," Kurt said, grabbing her around the chest. Her claw was caught in the side pocket of his jeans. While he was trying to extricate it, her other paw, claws out, hooked into the material.

"What's the matter with you?" Kurt asked. Her nose was straining to get into his pocket. "What do you want?"

"Mrrr!" Melissa said vigorously, biting his wrist.

Finally, Kurt understood.

"Your collar! You need your collar to get home, don't you?"

Melissa pushed her nose into his pocket.

"Just a minute," Kurt said, pushing her back gently. "I'll get it."

She sat perfectly still while he fastened the jeweled collar around her neck. He gave the top of her forehead a final scratch.
"Good-bye, your Highness."

Melissa bolted for the water. Before Kurt could speculate about whether she would swim or walk along the bottom, a wave broke over her and she was gone.

"That's it," Kurt said out loud. The game had played itself out, and there was no evidence that any of it had ever happened. Except. . . .

Kurt pulled out the garnet collar. It looked like an ordinary collar, but who knew what hi-tech secrets it held?

"Melissa." He spoke into the jewels. "Melissa, can you hear me?"

He imagined that he heard an ever-so-faint Mrrr.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: DO you want to know what happened to Kurt? The final two episodes are in the story file entitled Cyberkatz 1999 -Conclusion