Junkyard Cats - Faith Hunter Page 0,18

ears and one gimpy paw that had been partially amputated after a junkyard accident. I called her Tuffs because of the ear feathers and because she was . . . well . . . tough.

Most of the other cats were just called Cat. I wasn’t imaginative with names and there were a lot of cats.

On the screen, Tuffs crouched on the edge of a stack of rear hatch doors. She looked at Wide Stripe, who belly-crawled a meter to her left. She looked at Narrow Stripe, who scooted back into deeper cover. The striped female cats were Tuffs’ lieutenants, each one the primary breeder in one of the two prides. Tuffs looked at Spot, the female with the best vantage for ambush and a proven warrior; the orange-striped cat flicked her ear tabs, then leaped at the Puffer. A silent killing machine.

Spot landed on top of the Puffer, claws digging in as it bucked on its collapsible wheels. She rode it, flipping it over and leaping out of the way. The gray-striped cats launched from either side and latched onto the upside-down wheels, holding them. The Puffer was now immobilized, unable to right itself. Spot released her hold and slid to her feet, to begin a scent-reconnoiter. In less than a minute, she found the tiny seam where the Puffer had been sealed for active duty. She began to scratch around the seam, sensing with her claws. She went still and looked up at Tuffs. The matriarch tensed, her eyes fiercely intent. Spot repositioned her body and dug in, releasing the seal. The Puffer bounced and twisted, pulsing its wheels. The striped cats pulled the Puffer apart. It stopped moving. When the cats were sure it was dead, they pulled it into the middle of Aisle Tango Three and sauntered off.

Tuffs looked directly at the camera and licked her lips, making a demanding mrower before she turned her back on me and jumped high, to a skid full of ship anchors. Tracking her hunters from above, she followed as they searched for more prey.

“That’s . . .” Jagger went silent.

“Shining,” Mateo said, with his metallic sigh.

“Yeah. I know,” I said to them both.

“You have sentient killer cats. And you have a warbot,” Jagger said, in awe, going back to the most important part.

“Yeah.” I’d have to change Mateo’s name if I introduced them. Something similar, maybe, like Matt.

On the next screen, a Puffer appeared. It was a grenade launcher mini-bot. Jagger reacted quickly and shot it to pieces. I notified Mateo, who went to pick it up. Another Puffer appeared and was shot down by Jagger. Another. And another. My new pal seemed to be having fun.

Jagger moved closer to me, again watching the screens over my shoulder. It felt odd to have him there. Comforting and frightening and something else I had pushed away from my life and decided I’d never experience again. His scent was sweat-ripe and cigar-strong, tainted by the tang of engines and gasoline, that rare OMW scent that made me want. . . .

I stopped myself right there. Unless Jagger survived the transition and I managed to alter his memories, he was a dead man walking.

“Warbot,” I said to Mateo. “Can you gather up the parts and add them to the frying Crawlers? Without getting your suit infected?”

“Roger that. Can do.”

But he didn’t sound happy about it. Or rather, he didn’t sound happy about our visitor, who could have slit my throat at any moment for the last—I checked my chrono—half hour while I defended the junkyard. And he hadn’t. Jagger was—for certain—one of the good guys. And that broke my heart.

“What’s his name?” Jagger asked.

I swiveled my chair to him, thinking Jagger was asking about Mateo, but found my visitor peering into the med-bay. I removed the war-sleeve—which hurt like a mother as it disconnected—and joined him. I pulled on gloves as I moved. It was likely too late, but . . . maybe?

“He’s Notch. Because of the notched ear.”

“The cats have sentience. And some sort of group communication. Like ESP,” he said. “Like those birds that move in concert in flight and look like living clouds. Or fish in the ocean.”

“Seems so. No way to prove it.”

“You could catch them. Have them taken for study.”

Which someone might want to do to me, now that I’d broken cover.

“No.”

Jagger’s eyes met mine and he smiled. Up close, his eyes were a dozen colors—pale-milk-chocolate brown and green and, in one, a tiny spot of blue. In