The Nine Lives of Catseye Gomez

by Simon Hawke

  Hell, even if you were breeding animals for food, there was no reason not to treat them humanely, and then butcher them as painlessly as possible. It was the same basic ethic followed by the hunter. If you hunt for food, then you do your best to achieve a clean kill. You don't simply wound your prey and then leave it to suffer because it's too much work to follow the blood trail.

  In my younger days, I'd batted around my share of mice before I killed them, but while I may still joke occasionally about things like that, these days, mat's as far as it goes. Being on the receiving end of that kind of treatment, as I'd been on several occasions when I'd had a few close calls, had changed my outlook. Yeah, I was still a predator, as were humans, though many of them didn't like to admit it, but I no longer tortured my food. I remembered how Paulie had given up on eating veal when he found how the calves were raised, locked up all the time in stalls that were too small to allow for any movement and kept in darkness all the time.

  The point is, we all make choices, but if you're going to stand on principle, then you've gotta follow through. Some people get all upset when they see some skirt wearing a fur coat, and so they get together for a protest at the local furrier, pounding the pavement with their shoe leather. Holding up their pants with leather belts. And then sending someone out for a sack of hamburgers. Frankly, I don't see the difference between someone who packs a shotgun in the field to shoot some quail and someone who picks up a package of chicken breasts at the local supermarket. I'm a predator, a killer, and I make no bones about it. If it really bothered me, then I could make a choice to change and learn how to eat seaweed or something, but if I let someone else do my killing and package my food for me in a convenient, nonbloody form, then I'd only be a hypocrite.

  For all I knew, maybe Princess derived her nourishment exclusively from soybean kibble, but she looked more like the gourmet cat food type to me. And citizenship for thaumagenes? That had to be the silliest idea I'd ever heard. Maybe I should've asked her if we'd be expected to pay taxes once we'd been granted citizenship. Or go out and get jobs and social security numbers. Maybe put up our own candidates to run for office. How about a real dark-horse candidate? Hell, humans had designed us so we'd talk to them and help them fill the lonely hours that stretch out in the night. A sympathetic ear to listen when there's no one else to care, a nice, warm, furry thing that could curl up beside you and provide a little instant, nonthreatening love. But just because we'd been given the ability to communicate with humans didn't mean they wanted us to be human, or be on an equal footing with them.

  I got off at the lobby. There was a new guy at the security desk. I went up and introduced myself, then asked if he'd mind opening the front door for me and giving a message to Solo that I'd gone out for a while. Andy said he wouldn't mind at all, and he bent down to scratch me behind the ears. I never did like being scratched or stroked, especially by people I didn't know, but I figured what the hell, the guy was being nice and it didn't cost me anything. I wondered how Princess would feel about that sort of treatment. Would she purr and rub herself up against the guy's legs, or would her political correctness interpret the gesture as harassment?

  I went out into the street and stood there, feeling very small surrounded by all the tall buildings of downtown Denver. People were beginning to fill the sidewalks as they bustled off to work. The city was starting to come awake. I had a feeling it was going to be a long day.

  Four

  YOU can't explore much of a city in a only a few hours, and certainly not on foot, but you can get some idea of its pulse. Take Santa Fe, for instance. Start downtown, at the plaza, and just walk around awhile, in no particular direction. You won't see any tall buildings, and almost everywhere you look, you'll see the graceful look of adobe-style architecture. Warm earth tones all around, mocha brown, cafe au lait, and terra-cotta, tastefully trimmed with cool blues and greens, with exposed vigas and columned portillas.

  You'll see the people, and the way they move, the way they dress. No one's in a particular hurry. You'll see your trendy fashion statements, such as studded leather, Renaissance Punk, and fantasy Nouveau Medieval, but the Southerwestern style predominates. Women still dress in graceful flowing prairie skirts, and lace-trimmed blouses, or soft, drapey riding-style dresses, vests, boots, and Indian jewelry. Many of the men still wear jeans and Stetsons, western boots, and big silver buckles on their belts. You'll see a lot of personal expression in the styles, and the shops and galleries will tell you that this is a town that takes its art seriously. The atmosphere is laid back and mellow, the walks are brick, the bougainvillea perfumes the air. Chances are you'll want to stay awhile.

  Denver, on the other hand, marched to a very different beat. The city seemed anything but relaxed. There wasn't really any overwhelming sense of urgency, but there was a definite feeling of directed purpose. Women on the sidewalks on their way to work wore business clothes with running shoes, getting in some fitness training on the way to the office, where they'd probably slip the shoes back in their bags and change into high heels. Men wore suits and carried attache cases and walked with an unhurried, yet brisk stride. Drivers conducted business on their car phones. Traffic was still light, but there were a lot more vehicles than you'd find in Santa Fe.

  I wound up on something the sign called the Cherry Creek bike path, which looked like little more than a huge drainage ditch at first glance, sunk down below street level smack in the center of Speer Boulevard, with one-way traffic flanking it on each side. However, on closer examination, it turned out to be an actual creek, only one managed by city planning. Gently sloping concrete sidewalks that bicyclists could coast down led to the paved path, which ran alongside the creek between concrete walls that had been painted with graffiti. The creek babbled softly along a streambed that was bordered with large, square-cut, unfinished stone blocks. There was a narrow grass strip separating the paved path from the stream, and the bicyclists, joggers, and walkers moved briskly and seriously along the path, beneath the overpasses. Collisions between the pedestrians and the bicycles were avoided by the bicyclists shouting out, "On your left!" as they approached from behind, and the pedestrians obligingly veered to their right to allow the faster-moving traffic to pass. Everyone seemed very earnest about their fitness. Brightly colored, aerodynamic Lycra tights abounded, and the equipment all looked very racy and expensive.

  I strolled along the pathway for a short while, then decided I was taking my life into my hands by being down there among all those fast-moving bicycles and ground pounders, so I went back up to the street, where the morning rush hour was beginning and the ragged homeless people ambled down the sidewalks, talking to themselves and carrying sacks which held their pickings from the dumpsters. I headed back downtown and stopped at the Sixteenth Street Mall, which ran through downtown Denver like any other street, only it was closed to traffic. Small shuttle buses skimmed silently above the graveled causeways on either side of the wide median strip, which was paved and filled with well-tended little gardens and comfortable park benches. At this early hour, no one was lingering, so I picked one of the empty benches and made myself a perch, so I could watch the parade pass by.

  Someone had left a newspaper on the bench and I quickly skimmed it, carefully turning the pages with my paw. In many ways, things had come full circle. There was an article about the rebuilding of the Aladdin Theatre, complete with a sketch of how the structure would look when it was finished, side by side with a photograph of the way the place had looked just before it had been torn down back in the 1980s. It was sort of strange. Santa Fe had never really changed that much, though it had grown some, but in other cities, in the days prior to the Collapse, there had been bursts of building that saw the demolishing of old, historic structures to make room for architectural monstrosities that looked as if they'd been designed by some demented kid let loose with a set of Lego blocks. Tear down the old and make room for the fashionable new. But fashions change, and I guess the Aladdin was a case in p
oint.

  Judging by the old photograph, the original Aladdin Theatre had been quite a landmark, a wonderful example of American kitsch, built to look like a cross between a Turkish mosque and some mad sultan's palace. I guess it hadn't fit in with the grand visions of the urban planners back in the late twentieth century. It wasn't square and blocky, and you couldn't cover it with fancy, reflective, tinted glass. So out came the wrecker's ball and down it went. Now, with the pre-Collapse nostalgia craze, they were putting it back up again, exactly the way it had once been.

  Things like that seemed to be happening all over the country. In New York City, they were tearing down glass-slabbed office buildings and replacing them with stately brownstones. They were also replacing the passenger hover-crafts with updated replicas of the old Staten Island ferryboats. In Chicago, they were spending tons of money to reconstruct the elevated trains. The latest style in homebuilding was Retro-Victorian, and miniature stone castles were making a big comeback among the monied set. It was as if the whole country had become obsessed with turning back the clock, trying to recapture the spirit of the good old days, before everything had started to fall apart, and to pretend that the Collapse had never happened. Progress had brought about the whole unholy mess, so now everyone wanted to regress. But despite the new, spiritual nature consciousness and historical recreationism, there was no going back to the way things were before.

  The union of magic and technology had brought about all sorts of strange developments, not the least of which were creatures like myself. Computers had learned to talk long before animals were bred to speak, but now they were truly "magic boxes," encased in a new type of polymer produced by alchemy and hardwired with magically animated chips that made them, in a sense, a sentient lifeform. (And it boggled the mind to think of what might happen if they started insisting on their civil rights, as well.) Right there on the mall, in front of me, between a bookstore and a boutique, there was an alchemist's shop where one could purchase herbs and charms and potions guaranteed to do everything from curing your arthritis to enhancing your sexual performance. And only a short distance away, at the University of Colorado, students who had demonstrated an aptitude for magic were busy taking "pre-thaum" courses along with their electives in the hopes of getting into grad school and becoming warlocks, which was the term applied to students in the advanced-degree programs of the College of Sorcerers.

  I watched some of the young future adepts pass by, laughing and joking with each other on their way to school, dressed in faded jeans and colorful, high-topped athletic shoes and short, brown warlocks' cassocks. They were already wearing their hair long, as was the fashion among most adepts, just as many sorcerers wore robes in colors and patterns they adopted as their own personal trademark. Merlin himself had given up that look when he became a university administrator. He had cut his hair and trimmed his beard and taken to wearing tweed sport coats, button-down shirts, and flannel slacks. However, the romantic tradition of the sorcerer meant billowing robes and long, flowing hair, so that had become the style, and it had stuck. It also had given birth to Nouveau Medieval haute couture, which in turn had influenced the rest of the fashion industry. Now, almost every style of dress, from business suits to casual wear, was tinged with a medieval sort of flavor.

  Men's business suits had simple, clerical-style tunics paired with light, form-fitting breeches; girdle-style, ornamental belts; three-quarter-length cloaks, and short, soft, low-heeled boots. Some women chose this style as well, or went for the softer, more traditionally feminine look of clinging, ankle- or calf-length gowns, while others paired loose, riding-style skirts and boots with short, embroidered doublets and coat-hardies. In recent years, the unisex Neo-Edwardian style had arrived from Europe, with a more well-tailored look composed of frock coats and narrow, stovepipe trousers, ruffled or lace jabots, lace trim at the sleeves, and wide, high collars and lapels, worn with long, caped coats and accessorized with amulets and charms and velvet gloves or a profusion of rings and bracelets.

  Young people, of course, adopted their own style, and in keeping with the pre-Collapse nostalgia craze, Renaissance Punk was born. No one seemed to know exactly where it started or how, but it came with its own swaggering philosophy of nihilism and musical group apostles, that is, if you want to call that sort of noise music. Black leather was the uniform, elaborately studded and trimmed with chains and spikes. Tights or skin-fitting breeches, knee-high or above-the-knee boots, gauntlets, studded wristbands, white dueling shirts with laces at the neck, chain-mail vests, and head scarves or long, piratical bandannas completed the look. They called themselves "Rippers," a name derived from the initials of their movement. At least, they claimed it was a movement. Just exactly what it was they were moving toward was anybody's guess. I didn't see any of them around the mall this morning, but that was no surprise. The Rippers were a night breed.

  As I sat and watched the people flowing past me, the crowds growing thicker as the morning drew on, I began to understand the attraction of big cities. It was, more than anything else, the people. The ebb and flow of humanity. Humans were really no different from many animals in that respect. They, too, had a herding instinct. Most of them seemed to find comfort and security in being among large numbers of their fellow creatures. Given that, it was ironic how few of them managed to connect.

  My train of thought was abruptly interrupted by a voice at my side that said, "Well, and whose cute little kitty are you?"

  I turned my head, narrowing my eyes and feeling the fur on my back starting to bristle. I've been called a lot of things, but "cute little kitty" has never been one of my favorites. I bared my fangs and she froze, stopping her hand halfway from where she'd started to reach out to stroke me.

  I saw the expression on her face change from that "Oh-how-adorable" look women get when they see a nice little puttytat, to one of caution. I guess up close, where she could see my battle scars, I didn't look quite as cute as she had thought.

  She was dressed in the dark blue uniform of the Denver Police Department. She had on high boots and riding breeches, a black leather jacket, and a white helmet with a gold shield painted on it. Her scooter was parked a short distance behind her.

  "Something I can do for you, officer?" I asked, testily.

  "I just thought you might be lost or something," she said.

  "So you stopped to see if I needed any help getting down out of the tree?" I asked.

  She grinned, and my annoyance dissipated instantly. A smile like that and you'll sit still for an entire sheaf of speeding tickets. She took off her mirrored glasses and I saw a pair of sparkling blue-gray eyes that would've stopped any perpetrator dead in his tracks. I glanced at her name tag. Officer Sharp. She sure as hell was. Tall, slim, leggy, dark-haired, and drop-dead gorgeous. About twenty-eight or -nine, I guessed. A lady with a lot of cat in her, no doubt about it.

  "Something like that," she replied. "Mind if I sit down?"

  "Not a bit."

  She took a seat on the bench beside me and stretched out those long, booted legs, crossed them at the ankles, and stuck her hands into the pockets of her leather.

  "I notice you're not wearing a collar or a tag."

  "That against the law?"

  "No. I was just wondering if you belong to anyone," she said.

  "Matter of fact, no. Why do you ask?"

  She shrugged. "Curiosity."

  "Curiosity killed the cat," I said.

  She grinned again. It was amazing. With her uniform, boots, and helmet and those mirrored shades, she looked hard as nails and authoritarian as hell, but when she smiled like that, her whole face lit up.

  "Okay," she said. "The truth is you look as if you've had some rough treatment."

  "And?"

  "And I was wondering if you'd been abused," she finished.

  "What if I was?"

  "Then your owner and I would've had ourselves a little talk," she said.

  "I don't think there's much you would've been a
ble to do, legally," I said.

  "Maybe not," she admitted. "But I'll betcha if I looked at his or her vehicle real close, I could probably find all sorts of little violations. And that would only be for starters."

  "Well, I appreciate the thought," I said, "but the fact is, I never had an owner who abused me. Never had an owner, period. I grew up on the streets and backing down never quite got to be a habit."

  "How did a thaumagene wind up living on the streets?" she asked.

  "Ran away when I was just a kitten," I told her. "I couldn't stand being locked up, or sitting in a window and making cute every time some skirt walked by, in the hope someone would fall in love and buy me. That struck me as pathetic. So I figured out how to slip the catch on my cubicle and struck out on my own."

  "And you've been out here on the streets ever since?" she asked, with surprise.

  "Not here," I said. "In Santa Fe."

  She raised her eyebrows. "That's about an eight-hour drive," she said. "How did you wind up in Denver?"

  "It's long story, Officer Sharp."

  "Karen," she said. "You have a name?"

  "It's Gomez. Catseye Gomez."

  "Catseye Gomez," she repeated, and smiled that thousand-watt smile again. "It fits you. So, tell me your long story, Gomez. I've got some time."

  I gave her an abbreviated version. I left out the part about my encounter with the necromancer, because it would've taken too long to explain and there were things about that case that were better off not being public knowledge. I only said that Paulie had fallen ill and died, then finished up with how I wound up in Denver with Solo.

  "Police Commissioner Solo?" she asked.

  "Yeah," I said. "You know him?"

  "Not personally," she replied, "but of course every cop in the department knows who the commissioner is, and he's very well known in this town."

  "How's that?" I asked.