Oh bother. Don’t be sad, my boy. There, there, who’s a good lad?
He pushed his broad, furred forehead against the boy’s hand, as he often did.
You do remarkably well, for a human.
He ducked his head lower to catch his boy’s fingertips. The open invitation to a shared petting. Max responded with a happy scratch between Obi’s ears.
Obi purred—a phenomenal, rasping bass rattle—which boomed outward like some kind of advanced chest cough. It was an intimidating purr, by any standards—and the old cat had always been famous for it.
The box next to him rattled as the kittens shook in fear. A flap lifted slowly as two pink noses peeked out to sniff. Noses were followed by whiskers, then eyes, looking suspiciously at Obi.
“You two, what do you have to say for yourselves, upsetting this poor boy?” Obi called out, in sharply clipped Felinary. The kitten heads disappeared quickly back inside the box at the sight of the old cat’s teeth. Obi listened until he thought he could hear the sound of . . . was that crying?
“Oh bother. Don’t cry.”
Obi stuck his head slowly up and over the edge of the cardboard box. The kittens scrambled backward into the corner, their claws catching on the slick surface of the box. They had nowhere to go.
Pathetic little creatures. You can barely walk, how can I possibly use you as field agents for the Great Feline Empire?
Obi sniffed down toward one kitten nose.
Then another.
Meeeeeeeow.
This time the words were softer and much less gruff.
The kittens meowed back.
Meow. Meow.
“Looks like the three of you have a lot to talk about,” his boy said happily. All three whiskered heads turned to look at him. “What? Don’t you?”
The cats now regarded each other.
Obi smoothed a whisker with a paw.
So let’s get on with it, old man. You’re not getting any younger . . .
He settled his eyes on the kittens and started to improvise.
17
Obi Improvises
“Listen up, you two. I don’t know where you’re from or who you are, but you just tumbled into a world of danger! Follow my orders and you might just get out of this with a few lives to spare.”
No response.
Obi stared sternly over his white whiskers at the Dumpster kittens. “We’ve got important work, got it? Direct orders from the very top!”
Still no answer.
Finally, the furry gray kitten head poked up from the ball of fur that was the two quaking kittens. “Work? Top?”
The calico kitten head twitched beneath its spots. “Don’t answer him, Stu. He’s crazy. See? This is what Jay the Stray from the Shelter was warning us about—”
Obi scoffed. “Crazy? Me? Don’t be absurd. Tell me, are you familiar with the GFE?”
“What’s a Geef?” asked the gray.
Obi sighed. “The GFE. Great Feline Empire.”
More blank stares.
Obi saw that this was going to take a while. His hind legs ached to distraction this late in the day, and right now the old cat needed to focus.
The gray kitten looked over at him. “Who are you anyway?” Then he looked up at the boy. “Who is he?”
“One question at a time, please. He is my boy, Max. It seems you’re going into his home. You’re both very fortunate because Max is one of my favorite two-leggers. Now I have a question. Names, please,” Obi said, straightening up again. “Or shall I just call you what Max does? Scout and Stu?” He pointed with a flick of his worn paw.
“Scout,” said Scout, the scrawny calico.
“Stu,” said Stu, the pudgy gray.
“Really? How very odd. That’s what Max calls you.” It was considered a very good—and very rare—omen to find a human calling a cat by their actual name. Most often, an unsuspecting feline could go through life unwittingly answering to Marshmallow when his name was actually Beauregard.
Obi sighed. He inclined his head stiffly toward them, as much as a bow as the arthritic cat could muster. “Scout. Stu.”
They just kept staring.
This scruffy-looking pair is far from ideal, the old cat thought, but they’re all I have, and they’ll have to do.
The thicker-bellied gray kitten wrinkled its nose, sniffing the air around it in the same frantic way its sibling looked at it. “I’m Stu and she’s Scout.”
“We’ve established that.”
“I meant to say, Scout’s my sister. We’re littermates.”
“Excellent. Duly noted.” Obi was doing his best to take this slowly. “And you may call me Obi. Master Obi.”
“Okay.” Scout shrugged. “Mr. Obi.”
“Where are we anyways?” Stu said, finally coughing out his question.
“Bayside Street. The Wengrod family residence, to be more precise. You are about to become what the Furless call pets, because they—the Furless—require a great deal of petting.”
The kittens looked confused.
“You’ll get the hang of it. No trick to it at all.”
Scout and Stu looked at each other. “We will?”
“Yes, it’s like falling off a log,” Obi said.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t like that.” Stu scowled.
“Like what?” Obi looked perplexed.
“Falling off a log,” Scout said, batting Stu playfully. “Stu did it today, at the river.”
Obi smiled at the dirty, ragged kittens in front of him. Dragged from the river? The poor things had gotten by with nothing, that much was clear.
No love, gotten or given. No help. No freedom.
Just each other.
But they were tough. Scrappy. Resilient. Clueless as they come, but clever, and Obi’s only shot at getting ears and paws on the inside. I might be able to work with them, but I’m going to have to start at the beginning, Obi thought.
“Stu, Scout, I know we only just met, but I have critical information for you. Information and, I’m afraid . . .” Obi peered around and up, dramatically checking for prying metal ears. “. . . a very important mission.”
“A mission?” Stu listened raptly, eyes open wide. “Coooool. I like the sound of that.”
Scout was gnawing on a ratty toy mouse Max had borrowed from Obi’s stroller blankets. “Mhmnhmph” was all she could manage to get out.
“Pay attention, child.” Obi clawed it away from her with one brisk motion, and she sat up. “Also—paws off my Mousie.”
Scout looked surprised. Stu scooted closer to his sister. This whole conversation was getting a little weird.
“Well, then.” The old cat cleared his throat. “Did you two know that our kind, cats, are part of a proud culture that is much older and extends much farther than this world?”
“We are?” Scout asked, sitting back on her paws.
“Of course we are. Our kind have explored the stars, and our empire reaches to the farthest edges of the galaxy.” The ancient cat looked up at the sky.
Stu had no idea what most of those words meant—or what Obi was looking at, high up in the clouds—but the kitten copied him anyway. “Sounds awesome.”
“Or terrifying,” Scout said.
“It is both,” Obi said. “And, in much the same way, vile creatures called robots—our metal enemies without flesh or fur, blood or bone—have also spread throughout the galaxy, infiltrating whole planets and systems.”
“Robots?” Scout parroted.
Stu frowned. “Infiltrated?”
“Metal monstrosities. Baddies.” Obi tried to simplify. “They have invaded. Arrived without invitation. Planets like this one.” Obi sighed.
Scout looked around, suspicious, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “You mean they’re here?”
“Definitely,” the old cat affirmed, deadly serious.
She looked over first one shoulder, then the other. Whispered again. “Where?”
“All around. Even”—Obi paused
for effect—“in the very home you are about to join!”
“COOL!” Scout and Stu both shouted.
“Not cool.” Obi scowled. “Dangerous! Robots don’t like cats! They want us exterminated.”
“That sounds bad,” Stu murmured.
“It is! Robots and their entire culture are opposed to everything we cats hold most dear! Robots are obsessed with order and control.”
“Bots are bossy. Got it,” Scout translated.
“It’s more than that,” Obi said. “Bots hate cats because they cannot tolerate Individuality, which they believe leads to the troubling twins . . . Chaos and Disorder.”
“Wait, is he talking about us?” Stu asked, looking at Scout. The old cat just smiled and kept going.
“But in Feline culture, we prize Individuality above all else . . .”
“We do?” Stu asked.
“Speak for yourself,” Scout said to Obi, then leaned to bite her brother on the ear. “Get it?”
“No,” Stu said.
Obi smiled. “Scout means to say that we speak for ourselves . . . and we do NOT appreciate being told what to do.”
Stu was getting restless. Kittens weren’t known for their ability to focus. “We get it. These bot things sound like bossy losers.”
Scout jumped in. “Yeah, bots hate cats. Cats hate bots. Metal and fur will never get along.”
“Exactly!” Obi was getting through to them. “Our Feline Empire—our culture, our values, our very way of life—is under constant threat from the bots’ ruthless and persistent expansion. And you, my wobbly-whiskered children, just joined the eternal and intergalactic battle between the Furred and the Furless—the Great Feline Empire and the Galactic Robot Federation.”
“We did?” Scout asked, looking at him blankly.
“Oh, indeed.” Obi nodded.
“Oh. Yeah, I knew that,” Stu said. “Actually, I didn’t. You lost me at . . .” He frowned, scratching his ear. “Yeah, well, you just lost me.”
Scout looked at her brother. “There’s a war, and it doesn’t look good.”
“Why didn’t he say that?” Stu muttered, pawing his sister.
“He literally just did.” She pawed him back.
They started wrestling, and Obi realized he had lost his audience for the time being. Best to let it all sink in for a while.
He smiled beneath his whiskers.
“Listen, you two. For now, just go with Max. Come see me again and I will tell you more about your mission. All you need to do now is play house cat, and I promise you’ll have three square meals a day for every day you’re here.” He hesitated. “Snacks included.”
“Wait, what’s a cat again?” Stu asked, finally sniffing the old cat in front of him. “What’s a house?”
“What’s a meal?” Scout asked, sniffing Stu sniffing the old cat in front of him. “Why would it be square?”
Snotty-nosed fur balls, Obi thought, finally losing patience. This is pointless! Then he saw the tiniest nudge of Scout’s paw . . . and the tiniest twinkle in Stu’s eye . . .
“Are you playing with me, you wretched little urchins?” Obi swung one frail paw in anger—which they dodged easily. “Swindlers! Preying on the mercies of a Ninth!”
Both kittens burst out howling, throwing themselves on their backs with mewling laughter.
“His . . . face . . . !” Stu spluttered.
“What a dummy.” Scout giggled. “But hey, Gramps, a deal’s a deal.”
“Including snacks. Right, Pops?” Stu laughed harder.
Obi glared.
Max reached down, tickling one furry head at a time. “Look at that! You guys are playing so well together. I haven’t seen you have this much fun in . . . well, ever, Obi . . .”
Obi felt like hissing, but he could feel the warmth of his glowing collar, reminding him of his higher calling.
Time was running out. Max looked back at his house restlessly. “It’s getting dark. I’ve got to go inside, Obi.”
“Listen closely, you street rats.” Obi spoke rapidly. “It appears you’re going to be taken inside, so I need you to pay attention.”
“Hit me, bro,” Scout said.
“Most important, stay away from the Protos,” Obi said.
“The what?” Stu asked, and this time he wasn’t pretending to be stupid.
Obi sighed. “The robots. The metal creatures who are neither Fur or Furless. They’re dangerous.”
“You mean like longears? Or tree rats?” Scout asked.
“No,” Obi said. “I mean something far more dangerous. The universe is a dangerous place right now—and this house is right at the center of it.”
“Center of what?” Scout said, almost whispering.
The cat leaned closer, hissing. “The Eternal Conflict. The War. Cats versus Robots.”
Stu blinked. “You’re scaring me, old man.”
Obi nodded, eyeing the house behind them. “Good. You’re learning already. Watch your backs. And your whiskers. And your paws. Watch everything. The walls have ears and eyes. You mustn’t let down your guard.”
The kittens looked creeped out.
As they should, Obi thought.
“We better go,” Max said. “It’s getting late.” He picked up the lid to the box. Obi kept his eyes on the cardboard rectangle as it closed back around the kittens.
“Bye, Mr. Obi,” Stu shouted.
“Later, big guy,” Scout growled out.
Obi raised his voice as his boy picked them up. “Last word of advice?”
“No more creepy talk,” Scout wailed. “I’m gonna have nightmares.”
“Not that.” Obi smiled. “Do try to confine your business to the box. The Furless are very particular, I’m afraid, when it comes to, you know. One’s business.”
“Whiz in the box. Got it,” came Stu’s muffled voice.
Then: “Wait, this box?”
“Ew, Stuart!”
Obi sighed.
And with that, the boy carried the kittens up the back steps, across the porch, and into the house.
18
Introducing Elmer
Min stuffed her pizza into her mouth, washing it down with Capri Sun. She was in a hurry to eat before Max came back inside with his box full of furry problems. Not even cheese-in-the-crust could improve her mood.
“I can’t believe Max wants to adopt two random strays,” she said through a mouthful of cheese. “Stupid, smelly, hairy, germy, bum-licking, poop-sniffing, probably poop-eating kittens.”
“I think only dogs do that,” Javi said, settling into the couch. “I’m pretty sure cats go in a litter box and bury their poop and are generally pretty clean.”
“You just watch, Max will bring home the only two kittens in the world that aren’t potty trained.” She sniffed, her nose already suffering from whatever vile, poisonous toxins the cats spewed into the air.
“Min, I feel you. It’s only temporary, right?” Javi tried.
Min finished her slice, picked up her pack, and headed for the lab. “I’m going to work on my project. I better not see any FUR near the lab.” She slammed the door behind her.
Inside the lab, Min took a deep breath.
Phew.
Finally.
This was her happy place. Where she could build anything she could imagine.
Shelves lined the walls, full of books, spare parts, row after row of the building blocks of anything she could imagine. Motors, wheels, stacks of metal parts she could combine in any configuration she wanted. She ran her hand along a shelf piled high with sensors that could detect light, sound, water, temperature, movement, and more. Below that were shelves lined with the information she needed to make it all work—electronics manuals and books on physics, programming languages (so many of them!), and robotics.
This was where she spent time with her parents, learning, in the beginning, things like how to solder, or how to make an LED light blink.
This was where she’d discovered the mysteries
of electricity and the power of code.
This was where she’d figured out that if you just learned the right things and found the right parts—and yeah, did the right work—you could build something incredible.
Maybe even change the world.
Min had built little computers, then four-wheeled robots that she controlled with her phone, then self-balancing robots . . .
With each day, her creations grew more complex and interesting.
Her parents’ old prototype robots were also kept in the lab when they weren’t tasked with some kind of job around the house. Some of them were theirs, some were hers; what Min made was with her parents’ help, but mostly, she followed the countless tutorials and videos she found online.
Our Protos.
Min felt comforted by them, almost like friends she’d known for a long time—even if they were the kind of friends that had blinking lights and sensors. They were comforting her now anyway. Especially Tipsy, her first creation, and her favorite . . .
She walked to her corner of the lab and switched on a monitor, reviewing the final instructions for her next project, what she was sure would be her greatest creation of all.
“Wait until you see this guy. You’re gonna love him,” Min said, eyeing the Protos. They sat, lights on but motionless on the shelves next to the desk.
Min lifted her latest robot work-in-progress down from her work-in-progress shelf and placed it on her workbench.
The robot had four limbs, a bulky body, and a head.
It sat, or squatted, waiting to be switched on.
Min’s robot was different because it didn’t roll on treads or wheels, like most of the robots her friends built from kits.
Hers was designed so it could move and walk like a monkey or gorilla. It could use both legs and arms to walk, but it could also stand and walk upright.
Min smiled at her creation. “Almost ready for your test drive, Elmer?”
Elmer didn’t answer.
Max had come up with Elmer’s name one night at dinner, after telling Min about some proboscis monkey he followed online. It was all pretty ridiculous, but Min liked the name—and the glue—so she went with it.
Cats vs. Robots, Volume 1 Page 7