Cats in Cyberspace

By Beth Hilgartner

It's a cat's life for Fluffy and PKP until their Two-Feet companions have to take jobs out of the home. Gone are the days of snacks on demand and quality time patting and purring. Instead, Fluffy is left at the mercy of her psychotically aggressive sister, PKP (that's Princess KILLER Pinknose, to you!) while Dana and Colin are at work as wage slaves. It won't do! Fortunately for fluffy, when Dana tries to introduce Colin to the Internet, Inspiration-with-a-capital-I strikes. Fluffy takes matters into her own capable paws, and before you can say "Dogs are stupid" the two felines are racing along in the fast lane of the Information Superhighway.

Well, technology is a great think, but the Superhighway still has plenty of potholes. From the difficulties of reining in PKP's killer instincts ("What do you mean insider information is illegal?") to the Pizza Problem, Fluffy has her paws full as the tow cats navigate their way toward complete financial freedom for their Two-Feet pals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beth Hilgartner
• Release date: Jun 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310662409

Beth Hilgartner

I grew up in Rochester, NY, where I started school long before there were personal computers (much less cell phones). I discovered reading and books at a very early age, but it wasn’t until I was in 5th Grade that it ever occurred to me to wonder about where all those amazing stories actually came from. (If I’d been asked where books came from, I would probably have rolled my eyes and said, “The library.”) But once I figured out that someone had had to write down those stories I found so compelling, it was only a very short step to deciding that I could (and should) do that myself. I promptly started writing my very first book: The War of the Sun and the Moon — the first book of a trilogy (I'd discovered Tolkien by 5th Grade, too); and I was off and running.Now, many decades later, I live on a dirt road in Orford, New Hampshire, with my husband, three very spoiled felines, and more gardens than I can reasonably take care of (though I have a great time trying!). We're a little more than half a mile from pavement, and while we have electricity, running water, central heating (well, and a wood stove), and fiber optic, there's no TV reception, radio reception is spotty, and there's no cell phone service. And I'm still writing.

Book preview

Cats in Cyberspace

Beth Hilgartner

Copyright 2015 Beth Hilgartner

Published by Beth Hilgartner at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Petrouchka

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

About the Author

Other books by Beth Hilgartner

Connect with Beth Hilgartner

Author’s Note

This book was originally published in 2001. It was written and is set in the late 1990’s—the Bronze Age of the Internet, as it were—before anyone had coined the term ‘identity theft,’ and well before tablet devices, smart phones or, for that matter, e-books had become as ubiquitous as they are, today. I can say that nearly everything the cats do in the story (at least, with the computers—the jury is still out on how much of human language cats actually understand) was possible to do at the time the book was written. Since then, of course, technology and security have gotten more sophisticated. So, dear reader, if you can remember the late nineties, I urge you to cast your mind back to what the world was like then; and if you can’t remember that far back, then please treat this story as historical fiction, and trust me that I did my research. I’ve only stretched the truth a bit (well, probably a lot, but that is, after all, the novelist’s prerogative). And enjoy!

Beth Hilgartner, May 2015

Chapter One

Password inadmissible—the screen blinked—Access denied.

I said a bad word under my breath. She did it again, PKP: she changed her stupid password.

So: is she suspicious, careful, or just bored? PKP remarked, looking over my shoulder. Let's see. The last one was 'JSBACH.' Did you try Mozart?

Yeah; no go. Also CPEBACH, JCBACH, and PDQBACH. None of the above. Do you suppose she's gotten tired of composers?

PKP shook her head. Let's hope not. Think obscure. Vivaldi? Telemann? Or that English guy she listens to: Dowland?

I tried VIVALDI, TELEMANN, and DOWLAND. No again. I scanned the rack of CDs beside the computer desk, searching for inspiration. There were three recordings of the British viola da gamba consort, Fretwork, nestled among the usual disks of organ music and Bach cantatas. I tried BYRD, PURCELL and LAWES; no go. Inspired, I typed: FRETWORK; nothing. I started to shake. It's not working, I said, hearing the edge of desperation in my tone.

Well, don't panic, PKP snapped. I mean, how hard can it be?

I couldn't dignify that with an answer. I read through the CD titles again: Music for the King of Instruments struck my eye. I nudged the disk out of its slot: Baroque Masterworks for Organ by J. S. Bach and Diderich Buxtehude. There was an eight-character limit on the password; Buxtehude was too long. After a moment, I typed BXTHD—and the gates opened.

Interesting, PKP remarked. She's getting inventive.

It's only a matter of time before she finds something we can't crack easily.

Get real, Pudge. How clever do you think she is?

Please don't call me Pudge, I said, but quietly. PKP has a temper, and I hate to argue. I scanned the list of messages in the In Box, opened and read the one having to do with our current operation, and deleted it. We're gonna get caught, I said (not, I'm afraid, for the first time). All we need is a screw-up in timing. I know she isn't brilliant or anything, but if she reads one of those messages from your guy at Sun, the cream will be curdled.

PKP yawned; it was her way of denigrating my concerns. She has awfully good teeth. You worry too much, Pudge.

Yeah, well. Probably. But can't we get our own e-mail account? It can't be that big a deal.

You think they'll let you register as an undergraduate? PKP sneered.

No, but how about as an employee—or a consultant? Dana must have enough clout to register us; she's a research group administrator, for cripes sake.

And you're going to ask her?

I bit back the 'don't be dense' that was just waiting to get said. PKP dishes it out, but she doesn't take it. Why ask Dana? Let's just ask Moneylady. Dana kept some e-mail addresses filed under idiosyncratic nicknames. Moneylady was someone up the food chain in her department: a source for protocol and policies. Her real name was Betty. I e-mailed her with a question, phrased in Dana's syntax. Hi Betty. Happy Monday. Can you tell me how we can set up an e-mail account for someone who's doing some consulting for us? Please let me know ASAP, as the Boss is chewing my ankle on this one. Thnx. D

It was a risk, I knew. If Betty wasn't in, or wasn't answering, I'd be inviting the timing disaster; but Betty was regular as a time clock, and I knew Dana had a doctor's appointment this morning and wouldn't be in to work until nearly noon.

PKP watched me wait (and worry) for a minute before the computer made its e-mail noise (a perky voice saying: Incoming!—Dana's humor). Betty had come through. The process was fairly simple, and (like much of the College administrivia) could be done via e-mail. Under PKP's sardonic gaze, I composed the necessary communication. What's our name? I asked. I mean, our alias? They'll need a name for the listing.

PKP smiled slowly. Dick Whittington.

You want to be male? It surprised me. PKP is usually very critical of the Other Gender.

Why not? she asked with a shrug. It will make a change. You'd better use Richard, though; the College is notoriously formal.

I typed. (I always typed; I'm not great, but I'm a lot faster than PKP.) Middle initial? A—for Alias?

Whatever.

I fired off the request, and we moved on to other things. PKP wanted to do some Internet surfing. I left her to it and went downstairs to see whether I could find anything to eat. I was poking around in the kitchen counter mess, when I heard Colin's car in the drive. My heart did a back flip and went into overdrive as I raced back upstairs to warn PKP.

Colin, I said breathlessly, just drove in.

OK, OK. I'm signing off. Slippery trackball. Nerves made her clumsy.

Use 'Apple Q' to quit Netscape, I suggested, but PKP only growled at me under her breath. I left her alone and went down to distract Colin; it wasn't as if he would have any reason to check out Dana's computer (confirmed technophobe that he was).

He was just coming in the kitchen door when I got there. He set down two heavy bags of groceries and smiled at me. You look like you're up to no good, Sarah. Colin is the only one in my circle who ever calls me by my formal name.

I must have looked panicked, because he sighed. I'm not going to hurt you. Honestly: you're such a rabbit. He unpacked the groceries, stuck the perishables in the fridge and looked back at me. I suppose you want a snack. He poured some milk for me and said, Don't tell your sister. Then, he went back to the door. See you later—I've got a student. And he was gone.

Much to my surprise, when I got back upstairs, PKP was still surfing.

I thought you were signing off, I said.

It sounded like you had it under control, she said airily. You worry too much, Pudge. Haven't I always said so?

So what have you got? I asked. There's no point in paying attention to PKP's needling.

She gestured with a flourish to the screen. Contacts, Pudge dear. Brokers who trade in futures; brokerage houses which advertise automated stock trading; lists of corporate board members; Web sites and e-mail addresses. Useful stuff.

As I watched, PKP saved the stuff she'd pulled down to our file ('Games', in the 'Extensions, Disabled' file in the System folder. Dana was the kind of person who put a ton of aliases on her desktop and then never looked for anything in the System folder. She was also seriously allergic to computer games. The computer is a tool, she was fond of declaiming, not a toy. It was PKP's contention that even if she ended up in the 'Extensions, Disabled' folder by mistake, her iron anti-game stance would prevent her from investigating our file. So far, it had worked.)

The computer made its e-mail noise again—Incoming, incoming. Two messages. The College Network people had responded, confirming that Richard A. Whittington would get his e-mail account, sponsored by Dana's department. It would take a few days to process it, we were told, but there would be no problems. The other message was a short communication from PKP's pal at Sun. It read: The deal's going through. Buy now. It will be announced tomorrow.

PKP deleted the messages and looked meaningfully at me. Well. Is it a go, Pudge—or are you going to wimp out?

I took a deep breath; if we did this, we would be committed. There would be no turning back. I'm game—if you're sure your contact is reliable.

I'm sure, she said. What are we going to use for capital?

We'll use Dana's core account at Fidelity. There's not a ton of money there, but we can get at it. (I think, I added to myself; there were several potential problems, but PKP would only scoff at me for raising them.) Cut the network connection, please; I'll need the phone line.

I pushed papers around carefully in the financial folder Dana had left on the desk. On the off chance she had left them in some sort of order, I didn't want to disarrange them. There: the Fidelity statement I was looking for. Dana had written a four-digit number across the top of the statement; I was pretty sure it was her PIN number. (If it wasn't... Well, that was the first of the possible problems.) Everyone knows you shouldn't write PIN numbers down—especially on a statement, for the love of hollandaise; it's almost as stupid as putting your PIN on your ATM card—but Dana's like that with financial matters: living in some never-never land between ignorant and oblivious. It's as though she thinks hackers and thieves only inhabit novels—or perhaps she just thinks no one would ever bother setting up her financial small potatoes for an electronic heist. Whatever her mental justification, it made it easy for us, so I shouldn't complain. I turned the one-piece phone over, listened for the dial tone, and carefully dialed the Touch-Tone Trader 800-number. I held my breath while I punched in the number from the statement (followed by the pound sign as per the voice-mail instructions).

For a current quote, the generic voice-mail operator—to my extravagant relief—droned in my ear, type in the stock code... I followed directions as the mindless pseudo-secretary walked me through the process. I pushed the buttons I needed, listened to the resulting information. Sun Microsystems was trading today at 43 7/8; I did a quick mental calculation, and a moment later, bought 125 shares out of Dana's core account. The electronic operator read back the trade specifics and added the ominous information that a confirmation would be mailed to me. (That was the next—and potentially far more devastating—complication. Our freedom to operate depended entirely on Dana and Colin's ignorance. As long as they stayed in their comfortable, fiscally feckless state, we could do what we wanted; but if they ever started to suspect inexplicable things were happening to their accounts, we'd have to abort the whole project. A single, unintercepted trade confirmation would spell The End in big letters.) I hung up, and then, with the move I had practiced tirelessly (whenever PKP wasn't looking!), pounded the end of the one-piece phone with exactly enough force to flip it neatly onto its face on the desk top.

Done, I told PKP. We'll have to watch the mail and snag any Fidelity stuff; they're sending confirmations. I'm not cut out for this, I added in the face of PKP's perfect composure. I need a snack.

PKP, who was already dialing back in to the network, wrinkled her nose at me. Really, Pudge: how can you even think of food when there's surfing to be done?

I clamped my teeth on a sharp retort. PKP could be pretty high handed, for someone who hadn't even known the Internet existed until a couple of weeks ago.

Seriously, she went on, you can't have your binge until I've got some information out of you. What was that thing they were talking about at dinner, last night? You know, the thing you said we should research today?

I thought back. Dana and Colin's conversations were full of interesting tidbits—especially when they didn't realize we were listening. I hoarded them, delectable morsels to be savored later, or traded to PKP for a crumb of kindness or some other consideration. It was political, I said, not financial. Are you sure you want to look it up now?

Just remind me what it was.

Some kind of scandal about the CIA selling crack in black neighborhoods in California; search on San Jose Mercury News.

Why isn't that entrepreneurial? It sounds like a bold marketing ploy.

Umm, I said, putting a hefty dose of Deferential Attitude into my reply, It's illegal: crack's a drug; and it's hypocritical: the 'War on Drugs' administration setting itself up as a dealer.

Even with the big helping of Deferential Attitude, PKP glared at me. So why were we interested?

I didn't actually imagine that you were; I'm the one who's interested in sociology. Besides, I added, hoping to forestall her annoyance with flattery, I know you have so many more important things on your mind.

While the assessing look she trained on me was far from fond, she seemed a bit mollified. Wasn't there anything else they said? Something for me to look up? She wrinkled her nose in concentration. Marketable jeans or something?

"Oh! That's right; my memory's really slipping. Thank you. It was on Marketplace: some company that's marketing patented genetic material. Try: 'biotechnology and genome.'

She gave me her Look—which I interpreted as meaning that she couldn't spell biotechnology or genome, but didn't want to admit it. You drive.

We spent a while happily gathering information, until a particularly vivid description of genetically altered fat (and the panegyric description of the implications for fat-free foods) woke my stomach up again. It rumbled loudly, and PKP eyed me with disapproval.

Don't you ever get hungry? I asked her plaintively. I mean, couldn't you use a snack, too?

She sighed, but shrugged acquiescence. I quit Netscape, signed off the network and shut the computer down. Then, I jumped off the desk and headed for the maidenhair fern. Greenery is a poor substitute for shrimp, but it's all we have access to when the Two-Feets are off at Work.

PKP followed my example. She gave me The Look, before she joined me on the windowsill, but for once, I had other things on my mind. The fern was a little dry (which makes it bitter); Dana was slacking off, clearly, on Plant Duty.

By the way, how many shares of Sun did we buy? PKP asked.

125, I reported. If your information is correct—

What do you mean, 'if?' PKP retorted, flicking her tail at me.

Sorry, sorry. I meant, when the merger is announced, the stock should jump. We can bail, if it does, or hang fire and see if it splits.

She slashed her tail again: not completely pacified, but too lazy to hurt me. Fluffy, she said at last. Isn't this small potatoes? I mean 125 shares?

We've got to start somewhere. Besides, there was only about $6,000 in Dana's account. I ate a little more of the fern and started my bath.

You need money to make money, PKP complained. It's so unfair. If we had sixty K to start with, instead of six, we'd be halfway to our goal on one trade.

The thought gave me pause; I stopped my bath and stared at her. You must like risks, I accused. What if we were wrong, and lost the money?

Bark? she said. It was her way of letting me know I'd said something stupid. It stood for: What are you? A dog?? "Bark, bark! It's not my money. Why should I care?"

I licked furiously; if my mouth was full of fur, maybe I wouldn't say it. But I guess I was thinking too loudly. PKP whacked me with a paw—claws barely sheathed.

I'm not self-centered, Pudge; I have a healthy degree of detachment.

Don't hurt me! I didn't say anything.

You thought it, she said, with another goading whack. You're still thinking it: indifferent; apathetic; callous; unconcerned; heedless; inconsiderate. She flattened her ears and narrowed her eyes; her voice dropped into that dangerous growl I most dislike. I won't tolerate insubordination, Pudge. Don't you remember who I am?

Yes! Of course! Don't hurt me! Please, gracious Majesty: have mercy!

Are you being sarcastic? Her spiraling yowl galvanized me. I leapt off the windowsill and streaked toward one of my safe places, with as you might say, all due speed. PKP charged after me. "You— you— You're going to die, Fluffy!"

The yowl delayed her; I made it to safety by a whisker. I could hear her stalking around and swearing. She really has a temper. It's why we call her Princess Killer Pinknose.

***

My mother gave me advice, a long time ago. She always thought I was too delicate to make it as a feral barn

Reviews for Cats in Cyberspace

[narilka · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It's tough being a cat. Eat, sleep, decapitate rodents, repeat. Life is good! That is until their human companions decide to take jobs out of the house to help make ends meet. Gone are the days of home cooked meals, quality time and easy access to the out of doors. What are poor kitties to do? Fortunately for Fluffy and PKP, Dana has bought a laptop computer for the home and tries to introduce Collin to the wonders of the internet. And that's when inspiration strikes! The two felines take it upon themselves to learn how to navigate the information superhighway and figure out how to make some money to help their two-feets out.Cats in Cyberspace is a fun read about two cats and their adventures navigating the internet to help out their poor humans. The author starts the ebook off with a note to let the reader know the setting is the late '90s and to keep things in perspective of the technology of that era. Hilgartner does a wonderful job of writing the cats and giving them mannerisms that cat owners can easily identify with and in some cases are uncannily accurate. I really enjoyed cat logic and the creative ways the cats came up with solutions to their problems. It's a fun story from start to finish, great for any cat lover.

[krazy4katz · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A somewhat awkward story, but the cats are truly hilarious! How they end up as day traders to make their owners rich is quite a ride.