“She’s so cute!” Neela squeals.
“Yeah, well— he’s a boy,” I chuckle.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. And just so you know, he’s now our responsibility. He’ll depend on us completely. I can’t guarantee he’ll survive without his mother. There’s still time to leave him here.”
“Not a chance. Let’s go.”
We hit the road again. Neela’s full attention shifts to the backseat, where the newcomer’s whining and inspecting every corner. Eventually, she scoops him onto her lap. I let out a few low, reassuring rumbles—inaudible to Human ears, but effective. He calms and dozes off in her arms, curled up and content.
Outside, the weather takes a turn. A snowstorm is brewing. I weigh our options. Camp out in the restricted zone and risk being buried? Double back to Human territory and find a shelter unit? I mapped the next relay post—about thirty miles from the last. But going there might cost us valuable time against whoever’s chasing us.
I finally veer toward the border. Better to have the comfort and safety of Confed facilities. Plus, the idea of a real shower is... appealing.
Unfortunately, visibility sucks. I’ve lost all visual reference points. We haven’t gotten far, and I’m completely disoriented. I consider stopping and waiting out the storm.
And then I see it.
A greenish silhouette in the blizzard. A shelter.
No way. I must be totally turned around—we’re supposed to be far from the main road between Cydonia and Arabia Terra. Neela sees it too, judging by the relieved sigh she lets out.
A few minutes later, we pull under the recharge porch. I could’ve driven us right to the door, saving twenty feet in the snow—but I’m not cutting corners on safety. The vehicle needs to recharge.
I grab the kitten under one arm, Neela under the other, and guide us to the building with difficulty. No idea if someone’s inside—but this isn’t a guest shelter. It’s the same size as Neela’shome. If it’s occupied, I’ll need to convince them we mean no harm and ask for asylum.
Lucky us—it’s empty.
The silence inside is almost shocking after the howling winds. I do a quick sweep with the kitten trotting after me. He spots the garden corner, digs a little hole, and does his business. I praise him with gentle words and a scratch between the ears.
Back in the kitchen, Neela’s inspecting the supplies.
“No powdered milk. These shelters usually have some just in case. But this place feels more like an abandoned home.”
“I agree. I’d say someone lived here until maybe two or three days ago. The garden’s pristine. And the resident’s scent is still strong.”
“Where’s Pallas?” she asks.
“Who?”
“Pallas! The kitten. He needed a name, right? Manuls are also called Pallas’s cats—I don’t know why, I didn’t check the file. But I think Pallas fits, don’t you?”
She’s serious. In the middle of all this, she wants to know if I approve of the name. I shrug and say,
“Sure. Pallas it is. He’s in the garden. Needs space to run, and this place gives him a bit of it.”
Now that naming’s out of the way, concern returns to her face.
“There’s only soy milk in the pantry. I doubt it compares to his mother’s milk.”
I figured as much when I agreed to this. But if he’s six months, he might be able to wean. It’ll be rough, but if he’s strong, he’ll survive. It’s the best shot he has.
“Check your Earth database. See what soy milk’s missing nutritionally. Then we’ll improvise.”
She rushes to the lounge screen. A few taps later, she’s reading: soy milk has ten times less calcium than mother’s milk. It’s also lacking critical fats and proteins for growth. Her brow furrows, but then she straightens, determined.
“Soy milk will be the base. We’ll add DHA omega-3, vitamin and mineral drops, and powdered seeds for calcium. We’ll try to recreate his mom’s milk as best we can. But for the protein... can I count on you? Ideally, we want him weaned quickly.”
