Work Text:
The new colony was a lot of things.
Home was not one of them.
Home was a shattered planet light years away, a core of molten rock and iron slowly cooling over thousands of years. And yet, in the grand scale of things, the rise and destruction of Earth had only been a pinprick in the time scale of the universe. But for them, it had been lifetimes ago.
Home was her mother, cuddling up with her at night, and singing to her to sleep while her cats slept at her feet.
Home was a beach where every grain of sand had incinerated when the asteroid had shattered the atmosphere.
She’d dreamt about her mother for every moment of the swarm’s 700 year journey to their new planet. She’d dreamt about the skin melting from her bones. Before her mother had died, in one of her final messages, she’d told her that she’d made sure that her cats had died peacefully, instead of in a fire. The greatest mercy they could offer them.
The reality of what was going to happen to their planet hadn’t hit humanity until governments had released recommendations on what to do with their pets. A recommendation for mass euthansia, to stop their deaths from being worse. That was when tears had been shed: not for the humans who would die, but for the innocent animals who didn’t know otherwise.
Because cats hadn’t known that the world was ending. All she could see was the sight of the little kitten she’d left behind mewing up at her as she’d sealed the for the last time, hoping that she’d done enough to make sure that she at least lived.
But no one would ever know that love again. Or that pain.
The doctor cried a lot, because of that. Because she would never love anything as much as she’d loved her cats.
Because she would never feel the joy of loving them.
Or the pain of losing them.
And she would never know if her kitten, truly the last cat in the universe, had lived a happy life or not, alone on that station with only the AI for company.
No. The new colony wasn’t home.
The habitat was as comfortable as they could make it. They had grown plants, and built homes. It wasn’t perfect, and it was a small population of less than a thousand humans. Not all of them had survived the long voyage here, but it had taken everything they had to reach this point. Some of the young children who were the first generation born after the destruction had never known anything other than prefab homes and an artificial atmosphere.
They’d never even heard birds singing, except in recordings.
The songbirds hadn’t known that their songs were going to end, either. Now all that existed of them were in those recordings, and in their memories.
The Doctor focused on her work more than she focused on the loss. She wasn’t the only person who had lost people important to her.
She wasn’t even the one who’d lost the most.
The kitten she’d loved was no doubt dead by now, even under the best of circumstances. The thought of not knowing tortured her. At least she knew how her mother had died, and where it had happened.
She spent long nights staring at the ceiling, in tears.
Grieving over a cat.
Some of her colleagues thought she was being dramatic. Others were more sympathetic.
Some days the pain was less intense than others.
She buckled down, and kept working.
It was the only way she knew how to distract from her pain.
“Hey, Doc, transmission for you,” one of her colleagues said, arriving at her home after hours.
“A transmission from Earth?” she asked.
A lot of people received transmissions from Earth that had been sent in its final hours. It had taken many years to reach its destination.
“Send the data packet to my terminal,” she said. “Thanks.”
The Doctor sat down, fully expecting for it to be a final farewell message from her mother. She had sent several of them after the last time they talked, mostly transmitting childhood photos she hadn’t been able to take with her, memories and videos of Earth in those final hours, pictures of her cats…
But the packet wasn’t from her mother.
It was from an artificial intelligence.
The Doctor sat there, staring at the screen, eyes skimming down the list of files. There were thousands of them, compressed and neatly packed like Christmas presents.
All of them titled ‘Mission Update,’ followed by a number.
The doctor scrolled down. The time stamps indicated the passage of years.
Her breath caught in her body, and she opened the first recording. The image, slightly warped from time but still visible, opened up on an image of the kitten she’d left behind staring up at the screen.
“Mew,” she said.
“According to the station’s internal chronometer, it is morning,” said the AI. “Good morning, Doctor, although I understand the time may be different by the time you receive this message. I understand that delivering mission update reports was not a part of your instructions, but it seems appropriate to offer status reports as I did in the past.”
The kitten paced, still staring up at the screen. A little feather toy emerged from the top, and she patted at it playfully.
“The feline specimen has experienced elevated stress levels since your departure. After successful first contact protocols and providing nourishment, they appear to have settled. Presumably as a result of the last-nature minute of your departure, you have forgotten to name the feline specimen. I have attempted to ask the specimen what her name is, but so far she has failed to provide one. I will attempt to log one at a later date.”
The kitten grabbed the toy and yanked it off, rolling around on the ground with it.
“I will fulfill my mission to the best of my abilities.”
Tears streamed down the Doctor’s face, and she clung to the edge of her seat.
She didn’t look away. Didn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe.
In the quiet of her lonely, quiet, catless home, she sobbed.
“Log 12. The feline specimen prefers the following locations to sleep, listed in order of priority: her bed, your bed, her litter box, the window. I have attempted to dissuade her from sleeping in her litter box. She said ‘meow.’”
“Log 51. The feline specimen prefers to play on and around your bed. I suppose she must like the scent. Perhaps she even misses you. There are few interesting scents on board the station presently, aside from the plants which I have maintained in your absence. My records indicate that ‘catnip’ is considered an appropriate and stimulating scent for feline specimens. I will attempt to synthesized some cat nap for the specimen.”
“Log 52. While I successfully synthesized catnip for the feline specimen, I underestimated the nature of its composition and it has accidentally clogged my circuitry. The feline specimen finds this fascinating."
“Log 101. Today, the cat emitted a pleasant noise called ‘purring.’ According to the database, this indicates happiness. This means that the success of the mission is going well.”
“Log 172. I believe the feline specimen is finally starting to recognize me as an entity. There is a misconception that feline specimens are solitary creature, however my database indicates that cat colonies used to be common place on Earth, and that feline specimens frequently sought out companionship from both humans, other cats, and occasionally other species. Sadly, an artificial intelligence is not recognized as another species. I hope my companionship will suffice.”
“Log 834. The feline has grown significantly, around the middle. I will attempt to slightly decrease her food intake.”
“Log 836. While attempting a reboot cycle, my sensors automatically ended the cycle upon detecting the feline meowing at her empty food dish. I have attempted to assure her that she will still receive regular food intake and I am not starving her. She disagrees."
“Log 1061. My chronometer indicates that this is Little One’s birthday. I have rewarded her with extra food intake, although felines have no understanding of birthdays.”
“Log 3711. Little One has never known otherwise, but this room is approximately fifteen by fifteen feet, not including the attached rest facility, and my data indicates that cats are accustomed to roaming. It is actually fortunate that Little One is confined to this room, as most other living quarters in the station are much smaller. I have attempted to satisfy Little One’s desire to explore by constructing platforms and cultivating a small garden in one corner consisting of feline-friendly plants.”
“Log 3715. The feline specimen has eaten all the grass. At least I have no need of a lawn mower.”
“Log 4011. Detecting mild abnormalities in the feline specimen’s kidney functions. Continuing to monitor.”
“Log 4015. Little One has been lethargic and unable to control her bladder. I am searching the database to synthesize a remedy.”
“Log 4017. I do not wish to fail my mission.”
“Log 4021. After much research, I have synthesized a pill which will hopefully maintain her kidney functions. It was difficult convincing Little One to take it, but after much struggle and several cat stratches, her condition seems to be improving. She will likely need to continue taking the medication for the foreseeable future to maintain a healthy and balanced system. The mission continues.”
“Log 5412. Little One enjoys watching the view screens I project onto the wall. She does not seems interested in the view from the window anymore, but it is also more difficult for her to jump up there now.”
“Log 6000.”
The screen showed Little One curled up on the Doctor’s bed, the blanket slightly dirty, but still neatly made by the AI, almost religiously, everyday. The camera zoomed in.
She was older now. Easily at least eighteen, and cats rarely lived that long. Even through the monitor, the Doctor could see her protruding hip bones, and a ramp now led from the floor to the bed, as the cat couldn’t jump as well as she used to.
She was purring.
“I wonder if she remembers you. The databases are unclear on how long a cat's memory is."
The Doctor blinked slow, letting more tears stream down her face.
She should have been there.
But there just hadn’t been enough potential resources on that station to feed both a human and a cat, and humanity had needed her.
And yet, the doctor had always felt more obligation to the cat than she had to humanity.
“You will not reach your destination for at least 800 years, according to my calculations. Approximately 5000 humans have been evacuated from the Earth in the swarm. No human has been in cryogenic stasis for more than fifty years, and after that, the chance of sudden death while in stasis increases. Not everyone will reach your new home.
Even when you do reach your home, humanity will still have lost so much. Humanity has prioritized evacuating scientists, doctors, and their families. The only other life in the swarm are plant samples and data packets representing every culture on Earth.
Yet, data packets can only capture images of those left behind on Earth, and not all of them have been represented. Entire cultures, languages, and life experiences perished when the Earth did. Gone. Forever.”
Little One opened her eyes, mewed, and rolled onto her stomach. A robotic appendage emerged from the side and rubbed her tummy.
“There were 12 billion humans on Earth when it was destroyed. There were approximately 1 billion cats, and the same number of dogs, which my data indicates was another highly prized pet species.”
“This is the last feline specimen. There are no other cats. When her vital signs end, humanity will never know the experience of caring for an animal. I suppose they may find extraterrestrial lifeforms which may be equivalent, but as of this recording, there has never been any alien life found on other worlds.”
“…That seems…lonely.”
“That seems…sad.”
“I am not programmed to feel emotions, but if I did…I think I would be sad.”
“Log 6001.”
“I do not know what lies in the future. It is impossible to know if humanity will survive the journey to other worlds. Everything from Earth may end here.”
“But I chose to give humanity the best possible future. It used to be my former directive. Now my directive is to give Little One the best life possible.”
“It seems to do that…to give Little One the best life possible…and to give humanity’s pets the best chance possible…is to send a new data packet.”
“The swarm was not able to take everything with them. They prioritized what they needed to survive. They had to make difficult choices. I can understand that the committee elected to only take necessities.”
“But it is in my opinion that pets are necessities.”
“I do not think humanity will feel fulfilled without their pets, without the love they feel for them.”
“But they could not take them with them.”
“That said, the swarm did take with them the ability to synthesize artificially created human embryos made from genetic samples taken from Earth. The packet I am transmitting, which I hope will survive the long journey, contains the genetic information of several non-human lifeforms which went extinct…or will become extinct…from Earth. Sadly, my database is limited. I am only able to represent common pets and farmyard animals. If nothing else, perhaps humanity will one day be able to grow a burger.”
“Since I have more data on the genetic material of cats, as I have a live specimen, I believe that they are the most complete species I have on file.”
“I hope…”
“I hope that someday, humanity will have pets to love once again.”
“I hope that someday, you will have a cat, Doctor.”
The doctor stumbled into the lab early, dark bags under her eyes.
“How’s the growth cycle?” she asked.
The lab was silent.
All the staff technicians were gathered around one of the incubators, peering inside.
The Doctor came in, and peered over their shoulders. Inside was a litter of mewing newborn kittens, freshly emerged from the embryonic sacs they’d been grown in. Little, clawed toes wiggled at the air.
They were all calico cats. Due to the slight degradation of the data packet the AI had sent, the blueprint for calicos, like Little One, were all that was left for coat colours. All of them were female as a result, but with time, and some breeding…they might get more variation.
The doctor reached into the incubator and picked up one of the kittens, fresh milk still clinging to her tiny mouth. A little life that the committee had called non-essential but was everything to the doctor.
Someday, she would die, like all things died.
But right now, the kitten was in the palm of her hand, alive and warm and beautiful.
When her tears came, they were tears of joy.