Woke on a soft cot, in a gray box-like room. Reems lay curled up next to me, napping. It was a quiet, clean and featureless place. Light filtered down from the ceiling onto a dead white floor. The hexagonal door was odd, and lower by a couple inches than a normal door, but the basic fact was, there was nothing in the place to explore. I cursed, and grabbed for my sack, left crumpled on the floor, to check the contents. Amazingly, everything was still there.

I figured it was some sort of Kreeb facility, and was pissed with myself for letting a Bug get the better of me. I didn't know what the sects did with people they convinced or coherenced into going with them, or those they snatched off the street, depending on the sect. Since they never bashed anyone, they were usually less a threat than some of my other neighbors. So yeah, pissed, curious and bored covers it.

I glanced at Reems, but he was breathing okay. Saw no reason to wake him yet, probably sleeping off the effects of whatever it was the Kreeb had used on us. It took a while, but eventually, the door opened. A fifty-something red-head entered. No one I remembered seeing around. His jeans looked new, the light blue, washed-out kind though. Nothing I would favor. My visitor cleared his throat self-consciously.

“You're prob'ly wonderin' what them Kreeb are up to, haulin' ya oft the streets like they did. Name's Bill, by the way.”

He looked nervous and jerked at the knees a little. I shook the limp hand he offered and got to the point.

“So Bill, when are they going to let us go?”

“Eh, the Kreeb. Well, first things first. They don't get our talkin' so good, so they send me around ta' explain things. Took me a week ta' figure out what was what, so they guess it's faster ta' have me do it.”

“Alright, so?”

“Well, it's this-a-way. Ya knows how the sun comes up with a boom 'bout every fifteen-twenty minutes? It's about that.”

He gestured at Reems. “Psi-cat?”

“His name's Reems, a Rottengall.”

Bill nodded. “A talker, then. The Rottengall breed is all talkers. Ya know, they's bred from Prionailurus Viverrinus, a fishing wildcat. Can leap oh, nine feet or more, ya know. A mutation. Grow big. Double house cat size and then some, like yours. Bred special fer bigger heads, too.”

I shrugged. “I know he's big for a cat. You a vet?”

“Naw jus' fascinated by em'. Studied up on 'em some. What's he weigh?”

I upgraded my estimate of the guy's age. Maybe seventy, apparently going on senile. I wasn't interested in the off topic chit-chat, but given his age, played along a little. “Dunno. Maybe thirty-seven, thirty-eight pounds. Heavier than a bowling ball, anyway.”

Bill nodded. “He'll be alright, boy. Takes cats a little longer ta' shake off the stun. The Kreeb, they don't hurt nothin'.”

“You were going to tell me when we were getting out of here.”

Bill scratched at his neck. “Gettin to that. You see'd those pamphlets some of 'em hand out, right?”

“Sure. Don't have any idea what they are trying to show, anymore than anyone else does.”

He snickered, which sounded more like a sinus issue. “Neither do I, really, but it's called an orbital vector map. Shows that something bad is commin'. The world is gett'n spun up by some big-ass rock in space, what comes around ever so often and gives us a push. Not much, but it comes round a bunch. It's why plants don't grow natural, and all that.”

“The shooting star?”

“Hard on me to understand all of it, but I guess so.”

“And the booming?”

“Ah, I knows that one. They got some tracking machine inside the atmosphere. Circles th' globe “bout every 24 day/night cycles - usta call it every 8 hours, so's they can track...whatever it is they track. Anyway it flies low, and the air moves by it so fast that it makes a boom, as the world spins under it. The air, she mostly travels round th' same speed as th' Earth do. So's kinda like havin' an old timey jet pass over. Back when they was jets, anyway. You wouldn't knows about that, a'fore yer time, back when they was a twenty-four hour day. Have to take me at m'word.”

Reems stirred on the bed, picked his head up and blinked.

“You okay, Reems?”

“Vere da hell are ve?”

“Don't know. Still with the Kreeb though. Trying to find out right now.”

“Undt dis guy?”

“Oh. Bill...Reems. Reems, this is Bill. He was just about to tell me when we were getting out of here.”

Bill nodded again at Reems, looking a bit disturbed. “What I'm gettin' to, is that they figure in about fifty years or so, the place is gonna spin off all th' air, an' fry, an' that the big rock's gonna end up hittin' us anyways and blow the livin' hell out of 'er. Not tomorrow mind, but in a hunnert-fifty year or so. Meantime, she just gits worse, there's no commin' back ta the good times.”

“Doesn't sound good.”

“Nope. The Kreebs r' kinda evangelical like. They gets holy brownie points fer helping folks out what's in trouble. They's trying to help as many as they can. Some says they hasta ask, free will and all, others say it's okay ta' grab an' run.”

“The sects.”

“Yeah the sects, different approaches to gett'n their holy brownie points.”

“Look, Bill. I'm trying to be all cordial like, but I need to know where I am.”

Bill looked uneasily at Reems, then back to me. “We're with the Enlightened Servitor Church bunch.”

I was getting a little low on patience at this point. Maybe he wasn't evasive, just dense. Either way, this question was going to get answered. “Bill, cut through it. Where are we?”

“Eh, on a Kreeb ship.”

I was about ready to throttle the old geezer. “When are we getting off the ship?”

Reems broke silence at that, scratching at the porcelain flooring with his hind legs. “Better be soon, I to pee must. You von't like it.”

Bill raised placating hands. “Soon as yer through with me. But you need to know...”

I squinted at the man, who was obviously pussy-footing around something — no disrespect for my cat intended.

“Yer not going back ta home, wherever that was. Ya been...asleep fer a long while, and the Kreeb, they're putting ya off someplace safe, but not metro, if y' get my drift. Like the Fed Disaster Relocation Program in ought-six. You old enough to remember that?”

“Barely.”

“Gonna be different, a new life for ya, I'd say.”

“Vot ist this idiot saying, Tomas?”

The door opened again, this time to a black shelled Kreeb.

The speech-thing around its neck gassed out, “Preparations at endpoint?”

Bill sighed and said, “Good as I can do. Let 'em outside.”

The bug preened its mandibles. A nasty looking operation managed with wiggles of its various articulate jaw parts. Kreeb seem to do this when they get excited or irritated.

“Iss best we can do, this iss. S-stable type three main s-sequence star. Thiss place, 10,000 mile diameter, 1.2 gee, but O2 higher iss. Un-mapped, iss yet. One mission building soon iss, otherwise temporary shelters only. You come now?”

I raised my eyebrows at the old man. “Bill?”

“Place is like walking up a slow rise, most times. Get used to it though. Won't get short of breath cause there's more oxygen here, like the bug said. They'll give ya a kit. Seeds, a hoe, a tent, a water still. That kinda stuff. About two, three hundred, right here, at least so far. Sun stays up eh, mebbe thirteen hours at a time.”

“Where exactly are we?”

Bill scratched his head. “Can't say. The Kreeb tried to show me, but I couldn't fathom it.” He brightened, looking at Reems. “Lotsa small critters though. Yer Rottengall's gonna eat good here.”

Reems extended his claws and stretched. “Good hunting ist? Vell den, could be vorse, Tomas.”

“Tell the bug we want to go back. Now. Right Now. I've already cleared out a nice dig in the bay area.”

The Kreeb seemed more distressed, its mouth parts working overtime. “Not precessing towardss former vector. Thiss tour is complete. Query further at mission posst. Off now. You are ssaved.”

The two ushered us down a hallway to another hex shaped hole and out into bright sunlight. The color green hit me like a ton of bricks. Everywhere was green, under a blue, calm sky. Everything smelled like the inside of the arboretum. Reems forged ahead doing his usual scouting prance, though somewhat closer to me than usual. There was a plastic looking crate on bicycle rims outside, and the bug made several gestures toward it.

“Yours iss.”

A sort of tent city squatted before me, on a sward of moss-like green stuff. A few people sauntered about. To the left, a pink dome was being erected by a few Kreeb. Reems shot off toward some entangled growth bordering the clearing. Meantime, Bill had slunk back into the ship, out of sight, leaving me to stew before the gesticulating Kreeb. Yakking at Kreeb isn't generally very useful. Ignoring the bug, I got behind the crate, and pushed it towards the tent-town, receiving a few half-interested, quick glances from some of the wandering residents passing by. I guess the advent of new arrivals was commonplace enough not to be newsworthy.