Thanx so much to everyone who offered encouragement/ideas for Maggie's codename. Full credits will appear in the next chapter.
Thanx also to all ya'll who have been so diligent about reviewing. Keep it up — I thrive on feedback! — Skybright

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"YEEEEEAAAAHHH!!" Maggie Blackclaw couldn't resist a whoop of pure joy as her jet shot out of the hangar and into the bright sky above the Megakat Desert. "Now THIS is flying!"

Pulling back on the stick so fast that acceleration shoved her back into her seat, Maggie guided the jet into a series of rolls, banks, and turns that left her grinning. Only three months into its life, and the jet was already performing like a veteran.

"Having fun?" Jake's slightly amused voice broke into Maggie's private airshow.

"Do you have to ask?" Although she didn't turn to look, Maggie knew she would find the TurboKat soaring protectively at eight o'clock high. "This is more fun than a video game tournament — and I won, by the way."

"Only because I let you."

"That's what they all say." Maggie grinned. "Where's Chance? He's never this quiet."

"Back in the hangar. And it's 'T-Bone' and 'Razor' when we're in the air, remember?"

"You got it." She raised her eyebrows. "So you're driving? Should I be scared?"

"Ha, ha. I died laughing." Razor retorted dryly. "C'mon. Let's get down to business."

"As you wish, oh sharp-aimed one." Leaning forward, Maggie switched the weapons display to active mode. "Come on, kitten. Let's show him what we're made of."

"Releasing target drones . . . now." Razor informed her.

"Bring it on."

A quartet of flying drones streaked into view, each shooting in a different direction. Maggie's eyes flicked from weapons display to drones and back again.

"Y'know, I'll bet these things are what the UFO fanatics are really seeing." She remarked casually. "You ever let them out to play?" Razor merely snorted in reply.

"Guess that's a no." Maggie eyed the information scrolling across her defense analysis screen. "Okay, let's try . . . ." She grinned. "Robin Hood missile — away." A missile that resembled a closely-packed bundle of arrows shot towards the drones.

As a matter of fact it *was* a closely-packed bundle of arrows — jet-propelled ones that soon broke away from each other and shot towards the targets. One by one the modified "arrows" speared the fleeing drones.

"I shot an arrow into the air; it fell to earth, and I know exactly where." Maggie announced smugly. "C'mon, Razor, I've had a harder time playing 'Duck Hunt'."

"Misquoting Longfellow will cost you points on the final exam." He informed her. "And don't worry — it gets harder."

"Suuure." She flexed her claws. "Nothing my kitten can't handle."

"We'll see. Level two drones — away!"

This time there were six drones, larger and faster than the previous ones. It took several more minutes and a great deal more maneuvering before they went down.

"Okay, not bad." Maggie admitted. "But I'm still winning."

"Not for long. Launching level three drone."

"What, did you use up all the snappy names on the missiles?" Her fingers flew over the weapons controls. "Or did you figure it wasn't worth the trouble naming something I was gonna blow out of the sky?"

"Are you sure about that last one?"

Maggie's jaw dropped as the cement missile she had launched hit the drone dead-on — and bounced harmlessly off of its hull. She glanced at the defense analysis screen. "Triamonite armor plating? Where'd you get the cash for something like that?"

"We took it out of your paycheck." Razor deadpanned. "Now what?"

"I'm thinking." Maggie gnawed on her lower lip as she swung the jet into an arc outside of the drone's range. "Triamonite . . . what will cut through triamonite?"

"Bet you wish you'd payed better attention in chemistry class, huh?"

"Ugh. Third period. Mr. Midvale." Maggie shuddered. "*Don't* remind me. I practically needed therapy after a year in *that* class." She absentmindedly scrolled through her weapons array, then grinned. "All right, so it took me a minute to think. The only thing that'll cut through triamonite is a duenimite-titanium alloy . . . ."

"Such as that used in our buzzsaw missiles." Razor finished. "A-plus."

"Gee, thanks. Launching buzzsaw missiles now."

As Maggie thumbed the trigger, a sickening, tearing whine reverberated throughout the cockpit. "What the . . .?" A row of warning lights began glowing Christmas-tree red and an alarm buzzer started sounding as the jet suddenly began to lose altitude.

"Ah, CRUD!"

"What's happening?" Razor demanded. "Talk to me."

Maggie's paws became a blur as she toggled switches and punched buttons. "Buzzsaws deployed too early! Tore a trench down the middle of my bird — *not* a good thing!"

"What's your damage?"

"You name it, I got it! Hydraulics are gone, landing gear's toast, fuel lines're fouled up — I'm losing juice quicker than Manx's losing his hair!" She glanced worriedly at her altimeter. "And I'm dropping like a rock."

"You got enough fuel left for a VTOL setdown?"

"Ah . . ." Maggie scanned the displays. "Negative. I'd be lucky to start a campfire with the fuel I've got left." Another glance at the altimeter. "Still dropping."

"Jump and dump!" Razor demanded, using the Enforcer term for an emergency ejection.

"Well, funny thing about that." She said, swatting at one of the multiple warning lights. "One of those saws toasted the ejection seat. Looks like I'm going down with the bird." Maggie glanced up at the rapidly receding black speck above. "And the worst part of it is . . . I missed the stupid drone."

Maggie kept her eyes focused on the sky as the altimeter ran down to zero . . . .

And the screens representing the "sky" went from white-on-blue to blank gray. Sighing, she waited until she heard the hiss-click of the canopy locks opening. Then she pushed the canopy up and stepped out of the "cockpit" — really a flight simulator — and onto the floor of the hangar.

"Well, *that* could have gone better."

"No kidding." Jake agreed from his position at a nearby computer console. Pulling off his v.r. helmet, he ran a paw through his tousled headfur. "I knew we should've put the buzzsaws closer to the front of the arsenal."

"Design problems?" Chance asked around a mouthful of tuna sandwich. He was at another console on the other side of the hangar, eating lunch and using the console's monitor for a purpose it hadn't exactly been designed for — watching reruns of "Scaredy Kat".

"Not so much design as deployment problems." Maggie answered, leaning against the console where Jake was sitting. "Have the buzzsaws ever done that to you guys?"

"If they did, would we be sitting here?" Chance asked. Maggie rolled her eyes.

"Lemme see . . ." Jake leaned forward, calling up the programming protocols for the flight simulator. "Buzzsaw missile . . ." He punched in a string of computer commands. "Let's look at the code version for the simulator arsenal . . . ." He continued typing, scrolling through a long list of complicated computer language.

"Well, look on the bright side." Maggie said. "At least I wasn't in a *real* plane."

She glanced over her shoulder at the simulator. For three months now, they had spent much of their free time programming the designs for the Talon into the simulator's computer, running test "flights" and making various modifications. They'd also pulled together most of the scrap necessary to actually build the Talon; with much of the testing out of the way, the jet should be in the air after only about a month of construction.

*Assuming we can get all the bugs worked out of it.* Maggie thought wryly.

"Bingo!" Jake exclaimed. "This whole line of code got fouled up." He tapped the screen. "It's supposed to represent the safety mechanism that *keeps* the buzzsaw from deploying inside the plane — but the way it's typed, it *told* the missile to deploy!"

"Great." Maggie commented dryly as Jake corrected the code. "I'm dead because of a typo."

"Don't feel bad." Chance said, never looking away from the animated program. "My dad had a buddy during MidEastern Storm who had the same thing happen. Some idiot at Enforcers HQ over there accidentally marked his papers with 'deceased'. They sent his wife a telegram and everything." He took a giant bite of tuna and continued speaking. "Looked kinda funny when he tried to collect his paycheck . . . and he found out he wasn't gettin' paid because he was dead."

"At least he got out of the war." Jake quipped.

"Yeah, but imagine how his poor wife must have felt." Maggie added. "Hi, honey, I'm home! Oh, and by the way, I'm not dead!"

Chance laughed — whether at her or at Scaredy-Kat, she wasn't sure — and Jake grinned.

"Okay, the code's all fixed now. You wanna give it another go?"

"Why not?" Maggie grinned as she headed for the simulator. "And this time, that drone is going *down*!"

At that moment, however, the relative quiet of the hangar was broken by the persistent screeching of the alarm. Chance and Jake both leapt to their feet. As Jake bolted for the lockers, Chance hit the button on the alarm's intercom. "Yes, Miss Briggs?"

"T-Bone! There's some sort of robot *thing* heading towards the city from the desert!"

Chance — *No, it's T-Bone now.* Maggie corrected herself — glanced over his shoulder at Jake, who was already scrambling into his flight suit.

"Have you checked with Professor Hackle?"

"Feral just called him. It doesn't belong to him *or* Pumadyne, and every weapon the Enforcers have thrown at it so far has just bounced off!" The deputy mayor's voice held a note of panic. "We could sure use you guys."

"Roger that, Miss Briggs. We're on our way." T-Bone closed the intercom channel and rushed to get into his own flight suit.

Razor had already called up the dimensional radar by the time T-Bone joined him in the TurboKat. "Got it on screen, buddy. It's heading in from the West-Northwest about five miles out."

"And whatever it is," T-Bone growled, "It's *big*." He twisted around to address Maggie, shouting over the noise as the engines powered up. "Mind the store."

"You got it, boss." She flashed them both a thumbs-up. "Watch your tails."

"Watch yours." Razor responded as the hydraulic lift in the floor kicked in and the jet began to rise.

Maggie felt as much as heard it when the TurboKat's engines roared to full life on the level above her, catapulting the pair of vigilantes into the sky above the desert. Then, after a moment, the thunderous screaming roar recede into the distance — leaving nothing but the sound of the still-playing cartoons.

Shaking her head and smiling, she walked over to Chance's monitor and switched it off. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the bulletin board near the flight simulator, covered in schematics for the Talon.

"Don't worry, ketsele. It'll be your turn soon."
******

"I don't get it." Razor wrinkled his forehead in confusion at the information scrolling across his defense screens. "It's not *doing* anything."

"It's heading for the city." His partner pointed out.

"Yeah, but it hasn't changed course, fired a weapon . . . nothing. It's acting like it's out for a walk."

"Or a test drive." T-Bone studied the metallic object below them. Streamlined and apparently heavily shielded, its shape resembled one of the sand lizards that inhabited the Megakat Desert.

Only this lizard was two and a half stories high and headed for *his* city.

"Hold on." Razor said. "Something's happening . . . ."

T-Bone could see it, too. The robot lizard's "mouth" had swung open with amazing swiftness as it turned its head towards a mesa. "Is it doin' what I think it's . . . ?"

A brilliant flash of white light interrupted him, as the mesa was reduced to rubble.

"Holy kats!" Razor hissed, paws flying across the instruments. "T-Bone, the amount of energy that thing just let off . . . ."

"Was enough to take out a city block." T-Bone growled. "Or two. Or three."

"Bingo." Razor studied the defense screens once again. "It's turning . . ." His eyebrows shot up beneath his mask. "It's doing an . . . about-face?"

"Heading back the way it came." T-Bone swung the jet around to follow. "I say we take it out now, before it starts aiming at buildings instead of boulders."

"Roger that." Razor began arming an assortment of weapons. "Let's . . . whoa!"

Turning its head towards the TurboKat, the creature broke into a trot. Then it leapt into the air. As it did so, its "tail" folded away to reveal a jet engine. Drawing its legs close to its body, the lizard-jet gained altitude and put on a burst of sudden speed.

"No *way*." T-Bone hissed in disbelief. "No. Way."

"Believe it, buddy." His partner's paws were a blur of motion. "Not quite sure how it's staying airborne with no wings, but it *is* — and it's putting on speed."

"Then so will we." T-Bone thumbed the accelerator, and the TurboKat responded with a burst of pure speed.

"Got it on dimensional radar." Razor announced. "It's heading straight back the way it came . . . towards . . . ah, crud."

"What?"

"If it stays on this heading it's going to cross the Canine border in about five minutes."

"And we'll follow it." T-Bone responded.

"Are you nuts?" Razor demanded. "We may have ambassadors and an extradition treaty, but the Canines aren't exactly our bosom buddies. We violate their airspace and it could start another war — not to mention we'll most likely get our tails fried." His voice softened. "We've gotta back off on this one, buddy."

T-Bone hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "Roger that." He pulled the TurboKat into a wide turn. "Let's go home."

******

"Ummm . . . ." Maggie gnawed thoughtfully on a hangclaw. "G-7."

Chance grinned triumphantly. "Miss."

"Crud." She lashed her tail against the floor in annoyance. "Where did you *put* these things?"

"Wouldn't you like to know. C-9."

"Hit." Maggie grimaced.

"I'll bet he's got them all in a straight line." Jake offered from his position in the living room's single armchair.

"No helping, pal." Chance warned.

"As if it matters. I'm losing pitifully." Maggie sat cross-legged on the floor facing the couch, with "Battleship" set up on the coffee table between herself and Chance. "D-5." Behind her, the cop show on the TV provided quiet background noise, punctuated by the occasional gunshot or siren.

"Miss. C-8."

"Ugh. There went my battleship." Maggie rolled her eyes. "Is it too late to forfeit?"

"Yes. I . . . oh, hang on a sec." He scrambled for the remote and turned the volume up.

"That's next week on M.K.E.D. Grey-and-Beige. Up next, Kat's Eye News at five with anchorkat Tom Broclaw and your roving reporter, Ann Gora."

Maggie glanced over her shoulder as the screen lit up with the Kat's Eye News logo, then faded into the familiar face of Tom Broclaw.

"Good evening. This is Kat's Eye News for Saturday, November ninth. Our top story tonight — danger in the desert. Who or what was responsible for the sudden appearance of this robotic creature earlier today?" A picture appeared onscreen. "Is this the forerunner of a possible Canine attack? And did the Swat Kats prevent what could have been a disaster? With more on that story, here's Ann Gora."

"Cool." Chance commented as he hit mute. "Front-page coverage."

"Not bad. J-3."

"Miss. But you're getting warmer."

"Yee-haw." Maggie turned to Jake. "So you think the Canines sent that thing?"

"I dunno." He answered, lowering his magazine. "But it was top-of-the-line, whoever it belonged to. And the Canines didn't seem to mind when it entered their airspace."

"We're gonna have to keep an eye out." Chance noted. "We *don't* want that thing running loose in downtown MKC." He glanced down at the game. "G-9. That's your destroyer." He grinned smugly. "I win."

"No kidding." Maggie started pulling pegs out of the board. "How 'bout best three out of five?"

******

It took a lot to make Mac Mange nervous. As leader of MKC's most powerful crime syndicate — and, later, as one half of the supervillain team called the Metallikats — he had seen and done things that would freeze a normal kat's blood. It took a lot to give Mac the creeps.

This kat was accomplishing it nicely.

"I trust the test run met with your expectations?" His voice alone was enough to send a shiver up Mac's fiber-optic spine.

"Yeah, it was great." Molly responded. She was the one doing the talking this time — a fact for which Mac was grateful.

"Excellent." The kat purred. He stroked the cat that was sitting on his lap.

Mac didn't like cats. Most kats disliked being around them — for good reason, Mac thought. It was just too *weird* to see such feline features in a creature that couldn't reason — to recognize traits that reminded you of people you'd known in the face of a common pet. *No wonder they're so rare.* He thought.

"Now, about that payment . . ." Molly said.

"Ah, yes. The agreed-upon price, I'm sure?"

"You got it. All wired to your Canine bank account."

"Excellent." He repeated, standing. The cat gave Mac a wide berth as it left. "A pleasure doing business with the two of you." He extended his white-furred paw.

"Ah . . . likewise." Molly accepted it reluctantly, and Mac even more so.

"Do come see us again if you're ever in need."

"Right." Mac made a hasty exit, followed closely by Molly.

His wife blew out a relieved breath as they left the darkened office. "Was it just me," She asked, "Or did that kat give ya the creeps?"

"No kiddin'. But at least we got what we came for."

"Yeah." She grinned. "Look out, Swat creeps. The Metallikats are back in town!"


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To Be Continued (obviously)
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