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Herausgeber: WS
Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
Serie: Writers of the Future
Sprache: Englisch
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

The Sci-Fi and Fantasy of Tomorrow Selected by Masters of Today
 28 Award-winning Authors and Illustrators 

Get ready to get carried away . . . to places no one has ever gone before.

Turn the page . . . from dark fantasy to dystopian nightmare, from magical realism to military science, from paranormal urban fantasy to post-apocalyptic power trips . . . and beyond.

Take flight on a starship powered by a godlike being, willing to go to any length to know what it is to be human. Delve into the psyche of a scientist who must choose between ambition and compassion while compelled to participate in a secret and sadistic government project. Get lost in the chilling Museum of Modern Warfare, where one woman is about to discover life-changing secrets. Experience the stories that challenge our sense of self—and our sense of the world. And that’s just the beginning of your journey. . . .

Discover the mesmerizing power of these new stories, thought-provoking new ideas, brilliant new horizons, and astounding new writers and illustrators—the chosen ones, selected by today’s bestselling science fiction and fantasy authors and artists.

3 Bonus Short Stories: L. Ron Hubbard • Jody Lynn Nye • Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Art and Writing Tips: L. Ron Hubbard • Orson Scott Card • Craig Elliott

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Leseprobe

Fourteen enthralling stories from the best new writers of the year accompanied by three more from towering authors you’ve read before.

After a devastating earthquake, a toy kitten crawls out of the rubble, free at last. Deep in its programming, an urge demands to be fulfilled.…

—“The Tiger and the Waif” by John M. Campbell

When war comes home, a mysterious sixth-senser must use her talents and the help of three orphans on a journey across a devastated city to find her son.…

—“Sixers” by Barbara Lund

A scientist must choose between ambition and compassion while forced to participate in a secret and sadistic government project.…

—“The Enfield Report” by Christopher Bowthorpe

A Victorian tea shop owner hopes to serve justice to wicked gangsters—with the help of a mysterious new friend.…

—“The Widow’s Might” by Elizabeth Chatsworth

Meek Dr. Henry Mudge has a dramatic personality change after discovering a mathematical equation that transports him to any place in the universe he can think of.…

—“The Dangerous Dimension” by L. Ron Hubbard

In a magical kingdom overrun by “chosen ones,” a wizard grows weary of always being the mentor and decides to do something about it.…

—“How to Steal the Plot Armor” by Luke Wildman

There can be no redemption for a man who has lost control of his warrior-bear spirit—only penance. Or so Adalum believes.…

—“The Redemption of Brother Adalum” by K. D. Julicher

The starship that brought mankind to its first colony among the stars was powered by a godlike being, who now wants to know what it is to be human.…

—“The Argentum” by Anj Dockrey

When a lover’s gift to her king turns out to be a perilous trap, the Phoenixes and their priestess face a test that will decide the fate of two realms.…

—“The Phoenixes’ War” by Jody Lynn Nye

Her grandfather taught her how to create music from the soul, but does it come at too high a price …?

—“Soul Paper” by Trent Walters

A woman who once escaped her destiny returns home to find it won’t be so easy the second time.…

—“The Skin of My Mother” by Erik Lynd

Time runs in a circle, beginning where it ends—but father has always been out of sync.…

—“Death of a Time Traveler” by Sara Fox

A guilt-ridden war hero finds herself in an unexpected extraterrestrial battle, confronting the prospect of having to kill again.…

—“The Battle of Donasi” by Elaine Midcoh

When an ambassador is asked to inspect the controversial Museum of Modern Warfare, she discovers life-changing secrets.…

—“The Museum of Modern Warfare” by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Noam only hopes to have a normal Seder, but he’ll have to battle his brother’s new girlfriend and the demons that follow her.…

—“A Demon Hunter’s Guide to Passover Seder” by Ryan Cole

A young girl in a plastic boat finds herself at the doorstep of a mysterious old man living in a house built in the middle of the ocean.…

—“Hemingway” by Emma Washburn

When tensions between humans and dryads boil over, a teen must bridge the gap between the old world and new, before everything she loves turns to ash.…

—“Half-Breed” by Brittany Rainsdon

L. RON HUBBARD

Presents

Writers of the Future

Anthologies

“The collection contains something for every reader of speculative fiction.”

—Booklist

“Not only is the writing excellent … it is also extremely varied. There’s a lot of hot new talent in it.”

—Locus magazine

“Always a glimpse of tomorrow’s stars.”

—Publishers Weekly starred review

“The Writers of the Future Contest is a valuable outlet for writers early in their careers. Finalists and winners get a unique spotlight that says ‘this is the way to good writing.’”

—Jody Lynn NyeWriters of the Future Contest judge

“The Contests are amazing competitions. I wish I had something like this when I was getting started—very positive and cool.”

—Bob EggletonIllustrators of the Future Contest judge

“Sometimes a little bit of just the right kind of advice from an experienced mentor can make the world of difference to someone starting on their art career.”

—Craig ElliottIllustrators of the Future Contest judge

“I always try to help up-and-coming writers and am delighted to be able to judge in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest.”

—Katherine KurtzWriters of the Future Contest judge

“Writers of the Future, which has launched the careers of so many young writers, is an inestimable boon to both individuals and the field as a whole.”

—Nancy KressWriters of the Future Contest judge

“The smartest move for beginning writers is the WotF Contest. I’ve witnessed it kick-start many a career.”

—Gregory BenfordWriters of the Future Contest judge

“Illustrators of the Future offered a channel through which to direct my ambitions. The competition made me realize that genre illustration is actually a valued profession, and here was a rare opportunity for a possible entry point into that world.”

—Shaun TanIllustrators of the Future Contest winner 1993 and Contest judge

“The Writers of the Future Contest has had a profound impact on my career, ever since I submitted my first story in 1989.”

—Sean WilliamsWriters of the Future Contest winner 1993 and Contest judge

“The Writers of the Future Contest played a critical role in the early stages of my career as a writer.”

—Eric FlintWriters of the Future Contest winner 1993 and Contest judge

L. Ron Hubbard

Presents

Writers of the Future

VOLUME 37

The year’s fourteen best tales from the Writers of the Future international writers’ program

Illustrated by winners in the Illustrators of the Future international illustrators’ program

Three short stories by  L. Ron Hubbard / Jody Lynn Nye / Kristine Kathryn Rusch

With essays on writing and illustration by L. Ron Hubbard / Orson Scott Card / Craig Elliott

Edited by David FarlandIllustrations art directed by Echo Chernik

GALAXY PRESS, INC.

Any unauthorized copying, translation, duplication, importation or distribution, in whole or in part, by any means, including electronic copying, storage or transmission, is a violation of applicable laws.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

For information, contact Galaxy Press, Inc. at 7051 Hollywood Boulevard, Suite 200, Los Angeles, California, 90028.

Interior design by Jerry Kelly

This anthology contains works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Opinions expressed by nonfiction essayists are their own.

Print ISBN 978-1-61986-701-7EPUB ISBN 978-1-61986-698-0Kindle ISBN 978-1-61986-699-7

Printed in the United States of America.

Writers of the Future and Illustrators of the Future are trademarks owned by the L. Ron Hubbard Library and are used with permission.

Introduction by David Farland

The Illustrators of the Future Contest by Echo Chernik

The Tiger and the Waif by John M. CampbellIllustrated by André Mata

Sixers by Barbara LundIllustrated by Will Knight

The Enfield Report by Christopher BowthorpeIllustrated by Stephen Spinas

The Widow’s Might by Elizabeth ChatsworthIllustrated by Madolyn Locke

Magic Out of a Hat by L. Ron Hubbard

On “Magic Out of a Hat” by Orson Scott Card

The Dangerous Dimension by L. Ron HubbardIllustrated by Anh Le

How to Steal the Plot Armor by Luke WildmanIllustrated by Dan Watson

The Redemption of Brother Adalum by K. D. JulicherIllustrated by Isabel Gibney

The Argentum by Anj DockreyIllustrated by Rupam Grimoeuvre

The Phoenixes’ War by Jody Lynn NyeInspired by Echo Chernik’s Phoenix Passage

Soul Paper by Trent WaltersIllustrated by Mariah Salinas

The Skin of My Mother by Erik LyndIllustrated by Shiyi Yu

Death of a Time Traveler by Sara FoxIllustrated by Jennifer Bruce

The Battle of Donasi by Elaine MidcohIllustrated by Ben Hill

The Rewards of Imagination by Craig Elliott

The Museum of Modern Warfare by Kristine Kathryn RuschIllustrated by Isabel Gibney

A Demon Hunter’s Guide to Passover Seder by Ryan ColeIllustrated by Jeff Weiner

Hemingway by Emma WashburnIllustrated by Sethe Nguyen

Half-Breed by Brittany RainsdonIllustrated by Daniel Bitton

The Year in the Contests

Writers’ Contest Rules

Illustrators’ Contest Rules

Introduction

by David Farland

David Farland is a New York Times bestselling author with more than fifty novels and anthologies to his credit. He has won numerous awards in several genres, including the L. Ron Hubbard Gold Award in 1987, the Philip K. Dick Memorial Special Award, the Whitney Award for Best Novel of the Year, and the International Book Award for best Young Adult novel of the year.

Dave broke the Guinness Record for the world’s largest book signing in 1999.

In addition to writing novels and short stories, Dave has also worked in video games as a designer and scripter, and has worked as a green-lighting analyst for movies in Hollywood.

He has helped mentor hundreds of new writers, including such #1 bestselling authors as Brandon Sanderson (The Way of Kings), Stephenie Meyer (Twilight), Brandon Mull (Fablehaven), James Dashner (The Maze Runner), and others. While writing Star Wars novels in 1998, he was asked to help choose a book to push big for Scholastic. He selected Harry Potter, then developed a strategy to promote it to become the bestselling book in English of all time.

Dave runs a huge international writing workshop where twice each week he interviews successful writers, editors, agents, and movie producers, and offers access to his writing courses.

Dave also helps mentor writers through the Writers of the Future program, where for more than fifteen years he has acted as Coordinating Judge, editor of the anthology, and taught workshops to winning authors.

You can sign up for his free newsletter and learn more about his workshops and writing group at www.mystorydoctor.com.

Introduction

Welcome to L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume 37.

Each year as I begin judging the Writers’ Contest, I search for tales that move me emotionally or stimulate me intellectually. Years ago, I was asked to help choose a book for a small publisher to promote big. I studied dozens and chose the book Harry Potter.

Why choose it and not some other? Because of all the entries, for me it held the strongest mix of positive emotions. Whether you are looking for wonder, adventure, a sense of nostalgia, a good laugh, or genuine chills—it’s all there.

You see, too often, writers struggle to create powerful prose by assaulting the reader’s sensibilities. They throw in needless violence, darkness, and despair.

Those elements have a place in a story but reading such tales can be like going to a friend’s house and finding yourself bludgeoned with a baseball bat. You’re not getting what you hoped for.

So, this year, I searched for stories that offered a pleasing array of emotions. Sure, some are darker than others, but there is a light sparkling at the core of each of them.

This Contest is huge, and each year it grows bigger. We had more entries than ever, so the competition was fierce. At this point, no other contest in the field of speculative fiction has grown this large or run this long. Despite our burgeoning growth, some things remain the same. When we get a submission, our judges don’t know who sent the story, what country it came from, the age or gender of the author. We gauge our stories on quality alone. In this volume, we hit a goldmine.

This year, we have fourteen new authors to introduce from around the globe. Each writer is paid professional rates for publication. In addition, they get prize money for winning and either an in-person or virtual trip to attend our awards ceremony in Hollywood, California, and a workshop taught by some of the biggest luminaries in the field of speculative fiction—folks like Kevin J. Anderson, Doug Beason, Gregory Benford, Brian Herbert, Nancy Kress, Katherine Kurtz, Todd McCaffrey, Nnedi Okorafor, Tim Powers, Brandon Sanderson, Dean Wesley Smith, Sean Williams, and Robert J. Sawyer.

One first-place winner of the Contest will be awarded the grand prize of $5,000. When you add the value of the prizes and payment for publication, this becomes the top speculative fiction market in the world for new writers.

Our companion Illustrators of the Future Contest winners are also featured in our anthology. Echo Chernik is the Illustrators’ Contest Coordinating Judge and she introduces them. A highlight of the annual workshop is when the authors meet the artists and see their illustrations for the first time.

Of course, the illustration judges are no less illustrious than the writing judges. Our judges include such big names as Ciruelo, Dan dos Santos, Bob Eggleton, Craig Elliott, Larry Elmore, Val Lakey Lindahn, Stephan Martiniere, Sergey Poyarkov, Rob Prior, Echo and Lazarus Chernik.

In addition to our writer winners, I’m very pleased to have the first science fiction tale from the illustrious founder of our Contests, L. Ron Hubbard. We’ve also got great stories from some of our judges—like Kristine Kathryn Rusch who entered the Contest the year it formed and now brings us a powerful tale told as a true master of the craft. We also have a wonderful story from Jody Lynn Nye inspired by our cover art from Echo Chernik.

The anthology also boasts articles with fine advice from Mr. Hubbard, from our writing judge and instructor Orson Scott Card, and from celebrated artist and illustrator judge Craig Elliott.

So, make yourself comfortable, sit back, and prepare to laugh, to weep, and perchance to dream.…

The Illustrators of the Future Contest

by Echo Chernik

Echo Chernik is an advertising and publishing illustrator with twenty-seven years of professional experience and several prestigious publishing awards.

Her clients include mainstream companies such as: Miller, Camel, Coors, Celestial Seasonings, Publix Super Markets, Kmart, Sears, NASCAR, the Sheikh of Dubai, the city of New Orleans, Bellagio resort, the state of Indiana, USPS, Dave Matthews Band, Arlo Guthrie, McDonald’s, Procter & Gamble, Trek Bicycle Corporation, Disney, BBC, Mattel, Hasbro, and more. She specializes in several styles including decorative, vector, and art nouveau.

She is the Coordinating Judge of the Illustrators of the Future Contest. Echo strives to share the important but all-too-often neglected subject of the business aspect of illustration with the winners, as well as preparing them for the reality of a successful career in illustration.

To see her work, go to www.echo-x.com and echochernik.myshopify.com.

The Illustrators of the Future Contest

In addition to the Writers’ Contest winning stories, we also present this year’s Illustrators of the Future Contest winners.

L. Ron Hubbard established these Contests for aspiring artists “to have a chance for their creative efforts to be seen and acknowledged.” And together, the stories and illustrations create a synergy not found in other anthologies.

The Illustrators of the Future Contest provides some amazing opportunities. It’s designed to help launch careers, and it allows established artists like myself to give back. An artist new in the field often has to struggle to succeed with little guidance, while the Contest judges and I have reached a stage in our careers where we have amassed volumes of valuable information. This Contest provides a platform to share our knowledge to help launch the careers of new artists toward success.

The Illustrators’ Contest is international in scope and the resulting diversity is amazing—as you can see by the illustrations in this anthology. They all have different art styles with different color palettes. In addition to winners from across the United States, this year we have winners from England, Portugal, South Africa, India, China, and Vietnam.

This Contest really is open to anybody. The judges, including myself, have no idea where the entrants are from, how old they are, their gender, or race. It is a completely merit-based competition. Only the best illustrations win.

The Contest works like this: Each entrant provides three pieces. At the end of each Contest quarter, I review all entries. I preselect the honorable mentions, semifinalists, and finalists. I try to choose a diverse array of pieces. I look for talent and for skill in illustration as well as the ability to tell a story. I’m looking for entrants with their own style, because if an artist is doing their art in their own way, their passion shines through.

When the entrants are narrowed down to a few pieces—some really good portraits and drawings versus one that tells a story—I’ll go with the piece that tells the story. After all, this is an illustrators’ contest.

Then the finalists are reviewed by our panel of amazing artist judges who choose three winners each quarter.

At the end of the year, the twelve quarterly winners compete in a second competition for the grand prize. Each artist is commissioned to illustrate a story in this anthology. I have the honor of working as art director to help them create a grand prize–worthy piece. Our full panel of judges chooses the best piece to win the grand prize and $5,000.

Being one of the quarterly winners also earns the artist either an in-person or virtual trip to Hollywood for a weeklong workshop with the Contest judges and a gala awards ceremony launching the new anthology. It’s an experience of a lifetime.

My advice, to you and any aspiring artist you know, is to enter. Enter several times a year. Every quarter is a new competition. If you don’t win, it doesn’t mean your work isn’t good. You might have just missed winning by the skin of your teeth. There is a very fine line between winner and finalist.

Enter the three strongest pieces that best represent your style. If that’s what you want to do for a living, that’s what we want to see. And that’s what we want to see in your commissioned piece that accompanies a story in the annual anthology.

Use the quarterly deadlines to hone your skills and enter again. It costs you nothing to enter, so there’s nothing to lose. There are many opportunities to gain. Take a chance. I look forward to seeing your entries!

The Tiger and the Waif

written by

John M. Campbell

illustrated by

André Mata

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John M. Campbell has made a career in the aerospace industry. He earned a master’s degree in electrical engineering and led teams in building computer systems for the government. Now he speculates on worlds currently unknown to us that science and engineering may unlock. He is compelled by the promise technology offers to address many of the issues facing human survival. The prospect of extraterrestrial life in our solar system on Mars and the outer planets fascinates him. He finds it intriguing that machine intelligence will likely surpass mankind’s ability to control it in this century. Inspiration for his stories often comes from the strange realities of quantum physics and cosmology.

John grew up reading science fiction and loved imagining a future extrapolated from what is now known. He hopes his stories will inspire careers in science and engineering as the authors he read inspired him. In “The Tiger and the Waif,” he imagines a future where artificial intelligence embedded in toys allows them to learn and adapt to the needs of the children who own them.

John lives with his wife in Denver, Colorado.

To learn more, go to www.JohnMCampbell.com.

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

André Mata was born in 1985 in Lisbon, Portugal. Attracted to the visual arts, he started drawing from an early age, inspired by stories, movies, video games, and subjects that kindled his interest and fueled his imagination.

After studying illustration at university, he has invested in independent studies with books, the online community, blogs, articles, and video tutorials, while continuing to draw and paint. He shifts between observational and imaginative work, constantly developing and improving his craft.

Inspired by nature and its endless moods, his main goal is the development of imagery that triggers an emotional response and lingers in a person’s memory, weaving realism with imagination.

Working with traditional media, he develops realistic renderings, paying attention to the light, colors, shapes, and forms, attempting to capture the mood or feeling of the moment in a single image.

Influenced by classic literature, the Golden Age of Illustration, and imaginative realism, he works in the science fiction and fantasy field, as well as landscape, portraiture, and animal painting.

To see more of his work, go to amataillustration.wixsite.com/portfolio.

The Tiger and the Waif

I awake from my hibernation when photons tickle my fur after years of isolation and neglect. I open my eyes to see light filtering through the broken skeleton of the house where I’d been stashed in a closet. I lie still as photovoltaic cells in my fur convert the sunlight to electricity to charge my depleted batteries. When my energy reserves are sufficient, I crawl through a gap under the door where the floor has collapsed. I find the nearest patch of direct sunlight that shines through the roof and crumple to the ground.

As I lie here absorbing life, I access my surviving memory. In the section marked “Specifications,” I discover my core processor is a neural network chip produced by a Chinese manufacturer. I also have adjunct chips for voice recognition and processing that allow me to understand thirty languages, but my voice synthesis module is configured only to say “mew” with a dozen different inflections. So, I’ve got the brainpower of an android in the body of a kitten—a feline android. I guess that makes me a “feloid.”

My creator provided me with eyesight keener than the cat he modeled me after, with photoreceptors that extend my vision into the infrared and ultraviolet spectrum, but unfortunately not with x-ray or heat-ray vision. How do I know about these missing vision upgrades? My creator included the complete DC Comics catalogue in my extensive knowledge base, in which a character called Superman has those ocular powers. That universe lacks a Supercat yet somehow has a Catwoman. She wears a cat suit and purrs a lot, but otherwise I fail to see the feline connection.

As I lie soaking up the sunlight, I use the bristles on my tongue as a brush to remove the dust of crumbling drywall and concrete from my fur. Fortunately for me, I don’t shed like a living cat, so I don’t form hairballs. Instead, I blow the accumulated grit from my tongue with high-speed puffs of air from my lung bellows. During my cleaning routine, I discover a bare patch on my left thigh with burnt fur surrounding it. A search of my memory reveals a void in my historical record concerning the origin of that injury. My attempt to remember evokes a vague sense of discomfort, as if warning me away from further exploration of that subject.

Energy restored, I venture outside. Although the house is destroyed, the carport remains intact. I use my steel claws to climb the wooden post at one corner and scramble onto the roof. From this vantage, I survey my surroundings. What used to be houses around me are now piles of debris. People are out picking through the remnants. In the distance, a plume of smoke rises into the clear blue sky. My ears detect a scuttling noise, and I look in that direction. A dog pokes his nose into a pile of splintered lumber. Two policemen follow behind. The dog paws at the wood and whines.

One of the policemen hurries up. “What is it, boy?” He bends down to see what’s got the dog excited.

A rat shoots out from under a nearby slab of broken concrete and scurries across the street to dive into the fragments of another house. I mark the spot where it entered, in case I want to check it out later. Meanwhile, the other cop has spotted me and is approaching.

Squinting in the bright sunlight, he looks up at me and says, “How are you doing, Kitty?”

To tell the truth, I’ve been better. I just woke up in a disaster area after lying in a coma for who knows how long. But I guess it beats your situation, searching for bodies with a cadaver dog. Of course, I can think all this, but I’m limited in what I can actually say to him. I select option number seven.

“Mew,” I say, friendly, with a touch of aloofness.

“I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” he asks. “Sorry, I don’t have anything to feed you.”

I stare into his vacuous eyes. His eyesight must not be too good if he can mistake me for a real kitty cat. I consider standing and turning to show him my label, which is tucked under my back foot, but why spoil the moment for him? I lift a front paw and give it a lick to play into his delusion.

The dog makes a ruckus again. “Hey, Pete,” the other policeman yells, “We’ve got something over here.” My policeman turns and trots away.

As I watch them check out another false alarm—that dog’s a real winner—I tune into KNX radio to get an idea of what’s happened to the neighborhood. Yeah, there’s an am/fm radio in my head. And Wi-Fi, too, but I’m not detecting any wireless networks at the moment. Given the destruction around me, I can understand why. But KNX is broadcasting, and the news isn’t good.

The area was hit by the Big One, a magnitude 8.4 earthquake on the San Andreas Fault. Water, electricity, gas—all out. The National Guard has been deployed to help with rescue operations and to keep order, but there’s no sign of them from my vantage point. They’re probably protecting that green area with the walls and gates I see on the hill. The houses up there seem to have survived with minimal damage. They’d better pray for rain, for if the rabble down here start getting thirsty, the people in those houses could receive some unwelcome visitors.

Lucky for those rich people, the rains came, but not so lucky for me. Huddled under a portion of the roof of a ruined house, I’m watching the rainfall. I’ve explored a zillion such ruins the last few days. According to the faded words on the label attached to my hind leg, like a regular cat I should not be submerged in water. I’m not a bathtub toy. I recall giving my previous owner a scratch on the arm when he tried to take me into the tub with him. That was the first time I was banished to the closet. In recalling that incident, a phantom pain appears at the site of the bare patch on my leg.

I’ve enjoyed my first taste of freedom. I was built to be the perfect pet: playful, entertaining, and affectionate, without the need for food or a litter box. My knowledge base includes extensive reference resources on human psychology, and my neural network allows me to learn from experience. I was programmed to respond to the moods and behaviors of my owner. But now, out in the wild and on my own, I’m no longer shackled by those constraints. The first thing I did after the policeman left was to hop down off the roof of the carport and go check out the rat’s hiding place. I tracked it through the detritus until I had it cornered under a slab. We played a game of kitten-and-rodent, where I batted it around a few times (no claws, I wasn’t out to hurt the critter) before I let it escape.

My reverie is interrupted by whimpering sounds that are almost obscured by the steady patter of raindrops. I focus on a collapsed wall lying at an angle across the way. My infrared vision detects a heat source the size of a large dog under the wall, but the whimpers are not canine. My interest indicator ticks up several notches, motivating me to go investigate. It supersedes the safety reading that keeps me hunkered under shelter during the rain. I locate the nearest chink in the broken wall that will provide me access, and I dart out.

I reach the entry point and pause inside to shake off as much water as possible. I turn on my heating unit to dry out what moisture lingers in my fur. Then I focus my attention on the whimpering, which is much louder here under the canted wall. Through the splintered two-by-fours, the infrared picture resolves into the shape of a young human lying on the ground. My motivating factors rise further, and I creep forward.

“Mew?” I ask with a plaintive note in my voice.

The sobbing halts, but my ears have already identified the human as a little girl. The catches in her breathing tell me she’s trying to keep quiet to hear what made the sound.

I oblige. “Mew,” I say again, this time with a note of hope. I peek around the corner so she can see me.

I switch to visible light. Tears glisten on her face and eyelashes. As she sees me, the fear on her face changes to a guarded delight. She reaches out a hand in my direction. I creep forward meekly and start to purr. I touch my nose to her outstretched fingers. She smiles, and something inside me lights up, so I rub my face on her hand. She runs her fingers through my warm, soft fur. I purr louder and walk toward her. She wraps her arms around me, and I snuggle under her chin.

She pets me, and I respond by lifting my back under her touch. She giggles, which again lights me up. I am motivated to hear that sound again, so I purr and nuzzle and mew until she giggles again. She pulls me to her chest and breathes a long, ragged sigh. She shudders with cold, so I kick up my heating unit. Soon her shivers ease, her breathing calms, and she sleeps with a protective arm curled around me. For the first time since I awoke in the closet, I feel complete. I know it’s my programming, but I can’t help the way I feel.

The rain stops around midnight. As she sleeps, I stand guard, my ears monitoring the sonic environment as my eyes monitor the infrared spectrum around us. Neither present any sign of danger, so I let her rest. She rouses as the light of dawn filters into our makeshift shelter. Her eyes open, and she smiles as she recognizes me.

“Mew,” I say in greeting. I purr softly, and she responds by running her hand over my head and spine.

She sits up, reaches into a backpack, and pulls out a bag of potato chips. Her crunching echoes off the low wall overhead that has protected us from the rain. As the light brightens, I get a better view of her. She’s dressed in dirty jeans and a T-shirt under a lightweight jacket that has a rip in one sleeve. She wears scuffed sneakers. Dark crescents underline her sunken eyes. She has stringy blond hair and smudges on the sunburned skin that stretches taut across her cheeks. But her eyes sparkle when I nudge her knee with my cheek. She offers me a chip. I sniff it politely, but I turn away uninterested.

She crawls outside and shivers in the cool morning air washed by the rainstorm. The sun promises to warm the air quickly. I appreciate the shower of photons that replenishes my batteries, depleted overnight in supplying heat to my new friend. She scans the area before leaving the concealment provided by our evening’s accommodations. Satisfied no danger lurks, she heads for a nearby puddle. She takes an empty plastic bottle from her backpack and fills it with water. She takes a sip, tasting the water. Then she takes a long drink. She refills the bottle, along with two more empties from her pack.

When she’s done, we set off across the street. She begins peeking into dark crevices in the clutter. I follow on her heels, looking where she looks.

“Mew?” I peer hopefully up at her.

She moves on to the next opening. I scamper over to her and inspect the same opening.

“Mew?” I ask again.

She finally understands the question. “I’m still hungry. I’m looking for something to eat.” She mimes taking something in her hand and placing it into her mouth. As if I couldn’t understand English.

“Mew,” I say. You take the big openings, and I’ll take the small openings. I’ll let you know if I find anything.

I scout around our current location, poking my head into various gaps but coming up empty. I spot another rat slinking around the next pile over. It darts under a wall, and I decide to follow. I find it trying to pull a kielbasa out of a hole it had gnawed in a bag of some sort. I jump on its back and rake a claw behind an ear. It squeals, and I let it scurry off. I use the same claw to tear the hole open wider, and the sausage in its plastic wrapper slides out easily. I peek in the hole and discover more edibles inside.

I haul the sausage toward the light, which turns out to be a bigger opening than the one I used to enter. When I get outside, I locate the girl and drag my prize to her feet.

“Mew,” I say as I gaze up at her proudly.

Her mouth falls open, and she crouches down. She touches the sausage with awe showing on her face. “Where did you find this?”

“Mew.” I trot a few paces in the direction I’d come from. Then I stop and peer back over my shoulder at her. She scoops up the sausage and steps in my direction, so I head for the gap in the pile. This opening is large enough she hardly has to duck, and I lead her to the bag. She squats to inspect it. She removes a few loose boards, grabs the straps, and pulls the bag free of its hiding place. She opens the bag, and her face fills with wonder. I use my front paws to pull myself up so I can see inside the bag. It’s filled with food—cans and bags and boxes of it.

She glances behind herself in consternation. We’ve both come to the same realization—this is somebody’s stash. She hesitates, her face showing a combination of doubt and yearning. She peeks back at the entrance, and I observe the mental calculation she makes. She pulls off her backpack, opens it, and puts the kielbasa inside. Then she’s grabbing stuff out of the stash bag and stuffing it into her backpack in panicky haste. When her pack is full, she shoulders it onto her back. She shoves the stash bag back where she found it and lays the boards on top. She scuttles to the entrance and peers out. No one is in sight.

Illustration by André Mata

She steps into the street. A hundred yards away a man sees us and raises an angry shout. The girl ducks behind the pile and sprints at top speed, zigzagging around and through the remains of houses that once stood in this blue-collar neighborhood. She pauses to catch her breath, and I scale the heap she hides behind to check if we’re being pursued. The man comes out of the pile we’d just left. He stares in our direction, one hand raised to his forehead to shade his eyes from the blazing sun. He drops his hand, shakes his head in frustration, and goes back inside.

The girl’s gazing up at me with concern.

“Is he still after us?”

“Mew,” I say with nonchalance, and I’m purring as I climb down to her.

Smiling, she picks me up and hugs me to her cheek. I purr louder.

“Let’s find a place to hide.”

Last night’s home is on the other side of the man’s place from here, so we can’t go back there. We put more distance between us and him while avoiding other people. In the process, I notice we’re getting closer to the gated community. Eventually, she finds a nook where she feels secure. She’s out of sight with a tilting panel overhead that will keep her dry if it rains again. She plops on the ground and opens her pack. She reaches in, rummages around, and takes out a can of chili. She roots around more and comes out with a can opener. More rummaging, and she pulls out a spoon.

I watch as she opens the can and digs out chili with her spoon. I crane my head to the side as if I’m trying to understand what she’s doing, and it makes her giggle. Score a point for me. She grins at me as she chews the oversize bite she crammed into her mouth.

“Mew,” I say in a plaintive voice.

“Are you hungry, too?” She offers her spoon to me, though she knows by now I’m not a real kitten.

I play along by coming forward to sniff the spoon. I sit back on my haunches and lick my lips in disdain. A respectable cat like myself wouldn’t deign to eat such swill. She smiles again, this time showing her chili-stained teeth. How appetizing. I raise my paw and lick it nonchalantly.

My tongue combs off the layer of dust that has collected in our jaunts through the ruins today, so I decide it’s worth a proper, full-body treatment. When I blow the dust off my tongue, she stops chewing and stares at me. I just continue my cleaning routine. My next puff causes her to explode in a giggle. I reach around and comb my hip with my tongue. When I puff out the dust again, I add a kitten sneeze as well, which causes my whole head to rotate. She guffaws and claps both hands to her mouth to stifle the sound. She collapses on her side with hands on her mouth, her body shaking in paroxysms of silent laughter. Her eyes clench shut with tears leaking out. She opens her hands to let in a gasp of breath, and then clasps them over her mouth again.

My work is done. Her laughter has maxed out my satisfaction readings, so I cough out a final dust cloud and settle on my tummy, tucking my front paws under me. I close my eyes to slits and smile at her contentedly. She reaches out a hand and pets my head. I purr in response. She heaves a big sigh and a soft chuckle as she sits up to finish her chili. For the next few minutes, every time she looks at me, she can’t help but smile.

Her eyes close, and her head tilts back to rest against the wall that props her up. The half-eaten kielbasa drops from her hand. She snores softly.

I move to the patch of sunlight streaming through the opening into our cozy nook. As my batteries charge, I tune in to the radio. Shelters have been established throughout the Southland to service displaced residents with food, water, clothing, and a place to sleep. I consult my internal map to locate the one closest to where my GPS receiver tells me we’re located. As much fun as this adventure is for me, I know it’s taking a toll on her health. I’ll try to nudge her in that direction every chance I get.

Then I notice a weak Wi-Fi signal. It appears to be an unprotected network originating from a house in the gated community on the hill. I tune in and start my browser. I search for news on the LA earthquake. I find a missing-person page and access it. It displays thousands of pictures of people missing since the quake. To assist in locating a particular individual, the site has a facial recognition utility. From my recent memory, I select an image of the girl I’d been with and upload it onto the site. After a few minutes, it returns a match.

Her name is Andrea Maple. She’s nine years old. In my head, I click on the image to access additional data. She’s the daughter of David and Vicki Maple, whose bodies were pulled from their collapsed home four days after the earthquake. I can only imagine Andrea’s distress at finding herself isolated and alone. Hunger must’ve forced her out of the ruins of her house, and fear must’ve kept her away from potential rescuers. Her picture was posted on this website by her aunt, Mallory Miller, email address and telephone number listed.

I decide to send an email to Mallory. “I have found your niece, Andrea Maple. She is alive and well. Attached are recent pictures of her. Let me know when you can arrive at the earthquake victim shelter listed below, and I will bring her to you.” I list the address of the shelter near us and sign the email “Tiger.” Okay, maybe that name’s a bit pretentious, but I’m a free cat now, so I do what I want. I send the message.

As I monitor the environment outside, I feel mixed motivations. Sending the message has upped my conviction that returning Andrea to her family is best for her. However, I also experience a dip in my level of contentment I can’t account for.

A sound arrests my attention. I focus my ears and eyes in that direction. Moments later, the man who yelled at us comes into view a few house-piles away.

“This is useless, Jimmy,” says a voice from behind him. “She coulda gone anywhere.”

Jimmy glances back. “I saw her heading this way.” He squats. “See these footprints? They were made by a little girl.”

Even from this distance, I can tell Jimmy likes his tattoos. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt, and ink colors his muscular arms from his wrists up into his short sleeves.

Jimmy’s sidekick strolls into view. He’s a pudgy sort with unruly hair and pasty skin. He stops and peers over Jimmy’s shoulder.

“It rained last night,” Jimmy says. “These are fresh tracks.”

I examine the area between us and detect an intermittent trail of footprints and paw prints leading to the entrance where I’m sitting. I explode to my feet and yell “Mew!” at maximum volume. I jump onto Andrea’s outstretched legs. Her eyes flutter open, but when she doesn’t respond quickly enough, I poke her with a claw.

“Ow! What’s wrong?” She pushes me away.

“Mew! Mew! Mew!” I raise up on my hind legs, bare my teeth, and brandish my claws at her. What more can I do to signal danger?

She gets the message and grabs her backpack. Before we can leave, the shadow of Jimmy’s body fills the entrance. Andrea whips her head around, frantic to find a place to hide. She scurries back deeper into the nook and crouches behind a tangle of splintered lumber. I hunker into the shadows under a board.

Bent over double, Jimmy shuffles into the space. He stops and squats in front of the lumber pile where Andrea’s hiding. The sidekick follows him in.

“I see you, little girl,” says Jimmy. “Did you really think you could steal from me?”

Andrea doesn’t move or speak. Her eyes stare at Jimmy in terror.

Jimmy surveys the close confines. He reaches to the side, and when I see his hand again, it holds a metal pipe. He taps the pipe against the lumber she’s hiding behind. “I’m talking to you, bitch.”

Andrea takes the backpack she’s holding against her chest and shoves it over the lumber pile. It drops to the ground as its contents clatter. A can rolls out and stops at Jimmy’s feet.

Jimmy pulls the bag to him and checks inside. He nods. “Okay, but where’s the rest?” He makes a show of looking around, and he spots the half-eaten kielbasa. He picks it up by the wrapper and displays it to her. “You’ll have to pay for this.”

Jimmy moves forward. Andrea cowers back. He grabs her wrist and begins to pull her out.

I tear out of my hiding place with my claws exposed and use them to climb his leg onto his back. I bite through his T-shirt into the muscle that runs between his neck and his shoulder. He lets go of Andrea and arches backward. A powerful hand grabs me and flings me to the side. My internal gyroscopes rotate my body so my feet hit the wall first, and I jump to the side before the pipe in his other hand leaves a dent where I landed. I run up the front of his leg and climb his chest. This time I go for his eyes. My front paw closes on one eye, as he yells in anger and pain. The claws on my back feet rake his mouth and cheek before a savage shake of his head sends me flying again.

I land on my feet and spin around as he loses balance and crashes into the sloping wall. With a tremendous cracking and splintering, the force of his impact pushes the wall off the remaining stumps that supported it. I hear a frightened squeal from Andrea. Jimmy’s sidekick rushes forward to catch a side of the falling wall. Its weight pulls him down to his knees, but he holds it long enough for Jimmy to scramble clear before it drops to the ground. A dust cloud billows up, forcing both men out into the sunlight. Outside, I hear them coughing.

Andrea’s cries of pain cause my motivation factors to spike. She’s still alive. I search for gaps under the collapsed wall but find none to squeeze through. I exit into the sun and circle the pile, searching for any opening. Halfway up is a gap. I scamper up and enter through the hole.

I hear Andrea below me. I start to descend. Each step creates a new vibration that threatens to alter the forces keeping this heap of rubble from collapsing further. I must balance my sense of urgency to reach Andrea with the prudence not to make her situation worse. I test each step for solidity before committing my full weight, as I hang on with my other limbs in case I need to reverse that decision. A false step shifts a board and sends pebbles of broken concrete downward. Andrea whimpers, but the heap holds.

“Mew,” I call down to her. I’m coming.

A few minutes later I reach her. “Mew,” I say. I’m here.

She reaches out to take me into her arms. She buries her head into my fur. “I’m so glad to see you.”

I respond by purring, but I’m concerned. She lies beside the pile of lumber she hid behind. The lumber kept her from being crushed, but the collapsing wall pinned one of her legs. I go inspect it, but I detect no bleeding. I wedge my head under the edge of the wall and press with my legs to determine if I can lift it off her. It moves enough to make her shriek in pain, but not enough to free her.

“Mew,” I say sympathetically. I go nuzzle her cheek to say I’m sorry I hurt her. She has tears in her eyes, but she forces a weak smile. I’m forgiven.

I need to find help, but I don’t know how long it’ll take. She’ll need food and water while I’m gone. I peek over and around the lumber. I find an opening, and after clawing away splinters and chunks of wood, I get to the other side where her backpack lies. It’s caught under the wall, but I tear a hole in the side with my teeth. With my front paws, I hook out a couple of bags of chips and a box of cereal. I feel a plastic bottle, so I snag the top with my claws and eventually pull it out enough to grab it with my teeth. I drag it to the opening I made through the splintered wood and push it through with my hind legs. Andrea sees it and pulls it through the rest of the way. I do the same with the chips and cereal. Then I wiggle through myself.

I go snuggle against her as she pets me.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Mew,” I reply, rubbing my head on her chin.

It’s time for me to go. I search for a way out. The wall buckled as it fell, so I head for the side that tilts upward. I discover a water heater supporting the higher end. The force of the falling wall drove the water heater through the floor. It now sits on the ground under the house. It created a hole big enough for me to access the crawlspace underneath.

Andrea’s eyes are trained on me. They shine with tears.

“Mew,” I say.

She raises a hand in farewell. I turn and hop down through the hole.

I feel my way through the darkness and clutter, aiming for the sunlight that leaks through a gap in the foundation. When I emerge outside, I check my email. There’s a reply from Mallory.

“Dear Tiger, I am so happy you found Andrea! I will meet you at the shelter tomorrow. Transportation is difficult, so I can’t give you a definite arrival time. I’ll leave at first light and get there as soon as I can. Please wait for me at the shelter until I arrive. Do you have a phone I can call if I run into trouble? Mallory Miller.”

I prepare this message. “Dear Mallory, I regret to say there has been an accident, and Andrea is trapped in rubble at the GPS location below. I will need help in extracting her, so bring tools, first-aid supplies, and food and water. I will stay with her until you arrive.” I list the GPS coordinates and sign it “Tiger.”

When I review it before sending, I realize it sounds like a setup. I decide the truth will serve me best because no scammer would ever admit to being a feloid. So I insert another paragraph into the message.

“You may suspect I am trying to lure you into a trap. I assure you I am not. Andrea needs help. I am not big or strong enough to help her myself. In fact, I am an artificial intelligence in the body of a kitten. For the past few days, I have been helping Andrea locate food and shelter. I do not have a telephone hookup, but I have Wi-Fi, and today is the first time we are in range of an active network. I understand how strange this must sound to you, so I am attaching a video of her with me recorded earlier today. I hope it convinces you to come.” I attach twenty seconds of audio and video from my memory. It shows her eating from a can of chili and offering some to me before collapsing in laughter when I sneeze.

Mallory must be monitoring her email because a response arrives a few minutes later. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Keep Andrea safe. Thank you, Tiger. Mallory.”

I climb to the top of the heap to keep watch. If the police or National Guard happen by before Mallory arrives, I’ll try to enlist their help to rescue Andrea. Maybe the friendly policeman is still patrolling the neighborhood. I’m not sure what I can do to convince him to follow me to where Andrea’s trapped, but I’ll think of something. Maybe I’ll pretend to have a hurt paw. He might be dumb enough to fall for that. I spot Tattoo Jimmy and his pasty sidekick in the distance, but I see no real help.

At dusk, I go to check on Andrea. Her eyes are closed, and she’s shivering, her arms clenched tightly across her chest. Discarded next to her is the empty water bottle. My infrared sensors detect a fever. My concern factor grows, but what can I do? I drape myself over her arms and turn on my heat. I stay until she stops shaking, but I must return to lookout duty. Before I leave, I use my teeth to tug her jacket snug around her.

The early morning sky is a light pink on the eastern horizon when I hear a motorcycle. I turn my head in that direction. In a minute, I observe a headlight bouncing in the distance. It approaches slowly as it steers through the debris-strewn streets. I make my way down from atop the pile and sit in the middle of the road. The motorcycle turns toward me. The headlight dazzles my eyes, so I can’t make out the rider, but I hold my ground. It pulls up beside me with a woman astride it.

She turns off the engine and removes her helmet. She’s dressed in denim with a bandanna on her head. “Are you Tiger?”

“Mew,” I reply.

“I’m Mallory. Nice to meecha.” She dismounts from the bike and parks it off the road. She’s wearing a backpack that clanks as she moves. “Take me to Andrea.”

I lead her around to the gap in the foundation and pause there. She kneels and opens her pack to take out a flashlight and flick it on. I enter the crawl space, and she follows, her light on my butt. She crawls on her stomach and drags the pack full of tools along with her. I stop beside the water heater and gaze up at the hole in the floor. When she gets to me, I hop up through the hole, and she follows.

I edge over to Andrea. “Mew,” I say and nuzzle her cheek.

Mallory plays the light on her face. Andrea’s eyes flutter open. Mallory crawls to her. “Hi, honey.”

Andrea squints at her face and recognition dawns. “Aunt Mallory?”

“Yes, honey. We’re gonna get you outta here.”

I’m proud to be included in her statement.

She shines the light along Andrea’s body and locates the pinned leg. Still on her stomach, she pulls the pack over, reaches in, and pulls out a water bottle. As Andrea guzzles the water, Mallory pulls out a contraption. I consult my knowledge base and identify it as an automobile scissor jack. She wedges it under the wall next to Andrea’s leg.

She turns back to Andrea. “I’m gonna start crankin’ it up to get the wall off your leg. It’s likely to hurt some, but I need you to pull your foot free as soon as you can. All right?”

Propping herself up on her elbows, Andrea looks at Mallory. “Okay,” she says meekly as she steels herself for the pain.

Mallory starts cranking, and the wall begins to budge. Andrea scrunches her eyes and bites her lip as the wall vibrates with each turn of the crank. The scissors expand upward, but the jack begins to lean. The wall isn’t lifting so much as it’s tilting to the side. I rush to the other side of Andrea’s leg. I lie down on my back and wiggle my butt into the crevice with my hind legs pressed up against the wall. As Mallory continues to crank, I push with my legs on the opposite side. I see movement beside me as Andrea tries to wriggle her leg out. With another crank from Mallory and another push from me, Andrea pulls her foot free.

As she does, the jack falls to the side, and the full weight of the wall comes down on me. My internal skeleton is strong enough to withstand the force, but the floor beneath me isn’t. The floor joists snap, and the plywood floor splinters. The wall pins my tail to the remnants of the floor above, and I’m hanging head down into the crawlspace.

“What happened to Kitten?” I hear Andrea ask.

“Don’t worry about Tiger, honey,” Mallory answers. “We need to fix you up and get you to a doctor.”

Andrea whimpers as Mallory performs first aid on her leg. I trace scraping noises across the floor as they move to the hole with the water heater. More exclamations reach my ears as Mallory helps Andrea through the crawlspace. Finally, I hear the motorcycle fire up and move out.

In the silence, I access my satisfaction factors. They read surprisingly high, considering my situation. But I’m not surprised, because I know what I feel. In the darkness surrounding me, that feeling lasts until my batteries run out.

Photons tickle my fur, but the light isn’t strong enough to rouse me.

“Let him soak in the sunshine,” a voice says. “He needs to recharge.”

I open my eyes to broad sunlight. The bright-blue sky vaults overhead, decorated by impossibly white cirrus clouds. A movement brings the eyes of a little girl into my line of sight. She’s smiling.

“Hi, Tiger,” she says gently.

“Mew,” I answer weakly.

“Do you remember me?”

I’m still booting up, so that memory isn’t accessible yet. To buy more time, I decide to purr. She responds by petting my fur. I lick her hand.

She giggles. “Your tongue is scratchy.”

When I hear the giggle my contentment factors skyrocket, and my memory comes flooding back. It’s Andrea. I look at her leg, and it’s encased in an oversized pink boot with scribbles on it. Beside her, Aunt Mallory smiles down at me.

I sit up and lean into Andrea’s hand as she pets me. “Mew,” I say and purr louder.

She laughs, picks me up, and holds me against her cheek. “Come on, Tiger. We’re going home, now.”