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Martin Harry Greenberg, Janet Deaver-Pack, Esther M. Friesner, Richard Lee Byers, Edward Carmien, Lee Martindale, Paul Genesse, Jana Paniccia, Donald J. Bingle, Bruce A. Heard, Christopher Welch, Jean Rabe, Marc Tassin, Elaine Cunningham, Robert E. Vardeman, Elizabeth A. Vaughan, Matthew Woodring Stover, Ed Greenwood, Janny Wurts

Catopolis

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“The Persian, The Coon, and Bullets,” by Matthew Woodring Stover

INTRODUCTION, OR “PROPAW”

As most of you know, I’ve lived with cats for much of my life. A gorgeous, elegant long-haired gray and white lady I christened Star because of the markings across her face adopted me when I was four. Apparently, life in the house three doors south of my home wasn’t to her taste. With very little encouragement, and ignoring the strenuous protests of my mother as only a cat can, Star became “my” pet. (My oldest sister fed her, encouraged her to stay, and blamed it on me.) Star and her numerous offspring became close friends, homework helpers, and play-mates as I grew up.

I began to suspect that there was more to “domestic” feline society many years ago. I couldn’t get any of my furry associates to tell me more than snippets of things going on in that hidden level of existence. They didn’t want me to get in trouble with either the humans I had to live with, or with other cats. And especially not with the Goddess Bast, who might have taken offense and squashed my earliest investigations. She seemed amused instead. I persisted, trying to discover more of the unique society I knew must be brimming just beneath the human stratum. The longer I lived with cats, the more sure I was that they had communication and rich lives beyond what I saw.

Prince, son of Star, was not the most talkative of cats. An almost-feral, I persuaded him from the garage to the back porch with treats. He liked his comforts too much to imperil them by whispering to me the secrets of his kind. But he loved curling up in my lap, sighing, and making vague references to things I, a grade-schooler, couldn’t quite put together.

After Prince died of old age, Ari Mithral Shannonn and I had a very close relationship. That 16-pound Blue Point not-quite Siamese and I talked a lot during his too-short life. He was my first Guardian, and he took his duties quite seriously. It was through him that I learned how large a cat’s vocabulary can be, both in catese and in human words. He adored music and listened to me practice singing for hours from the top of the piano, a smile on his face as I worked on Mozart, Johann Strauss, Jr., and art songs. Shann was also my first analytical cat: He’d play with strings until he realized where their motion stemmed from, then all he wanted was my hands and fingers. After him, Bastjun Amaranth was a tabby that gave nothing away but the barest hints, but Canth Starshadow (my first black cat) started me on the road to understanding more of what cats do while they appear to be napping. He also offered suggestions as to why cats sit on anything printed and why they sometimes stare at walls for extended periods.

After all this time, I began to understand.

I’ve gleaned much more through close living with my current trio. Tabirika Onyx has extensive conversations with crows when the windows are screened during the summer months. She also tells the deer when they’re too close to the house and monitors the crazed hollering of the chipmunks. Her information network is extensive, and she keeps a paw on everything going on in the neighborhood from our windowsills. Syrannis Moonstone, who is half Abysinnian, gets odd expressions on her face, then studies walls and corners as if expecting them to speak. It’s as if she sees ghosts of the past or future against the paint and wallpaper. Baron Figaro de Shannivere, my rare mist cat, is an analytical creature who turns doorknobs and has a huge vocabulary reminiscent of Shann’s. He won’t play with a laser pointer because he’s figured out that its motion comes from my hand. Trouble is, he told Syri, and now she won’t play with it either.

All of this information slammed together in a headache not too long ago. That’s when the idea for Catopolis was born. Cat society, as thick and varied as that of humans, exists in a stratum below ours. We see only a fraction of it. It is there, our feline companions allowing us to know bits and pieces of its tapestry, while they watch us with knowing eyes.

I started keeping notes about a Catopolis society. My cats, after they became accustomed to my knowledge about their secrets, contributed a goodly proportion of the details. We believe this has Bast’s approbation, because our notes haven’t disappeared in flames, been shredded by ghostly claws, fluttered away without the agent of wind, or destroyed by soggy organic means. The authors telling the tales within these pages offered to flesh out the rest, building on our initial descriptions.

And we all had a lot of fun.

So welcome to Catopolis, the city of felines that exists on the same plane with humans, yet is hidden. Here you’ll find Guardians, mentors, detectives, Robin Hood-second story types, demon-fighters, guides, kings, strays, oracles, true love, incredible friendships, and those hoping to win elected positions via mouse ballots. (Those may have to be rethought before next time: there were too many missing for an accurate count).

Enjoy!

Janet Deaver-Pack

Tabirika Onyx

Syrannis Moonstone

Baron Figaro de Shannivere

Williams Bay, Wisconsin

Autumn 2007

GUT FEELING by Esther M. Friesner

The small, plump tabby female sat before the massive black and white tom and did her best not to let him see her shiver. Courage, Lulu! she told herself. He can’t kill you. He wouldn’t dare. But even as she did her best to hold onto her last few shreds of valor, an insidious afterthought whispered: He can’t kill you… yet.

Unaware of the female’s fear, the big tom gave her a long, cool stare from beneath half-lowered eyelids. “Well, kit? Have you reconsidered my… request?” he drawled.

“I have,” Lulu replied, keeping her voice steady. “My answer’s unchanged. I won’t betray my gift by making a false prediction.”

“Ah, but would it be false?” The black and white tom licked one paw lazily, then opened his mouth so that one of his minions could pop in a KrunchiYum cat treat. “I will be the sole, undisputed ruler of Catopolis. It is fated. Your prediction will simply hasten the happy day.”

Despite her fear, Lulu scowled. “If you’re so certain it’s predestined, you don’t need my services.”

“Oh, but I do,” the tom replied. “You see, kit, I am not the most patient cat in this city. Even nine lives end some day. I want the power I deserve while I can still enjoy it for a long, long time. You are this city’s respected Seer. Your prediction will make all accept the inevitable immediately! You shall perform the Reading I desire at the next full moon, when-”