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An Emergency on Earth

THE GREAT FELINE EMPIRE (GFE)

Pounce de Leon, second-in-command and Major Meow-Domo of the Great Feline Empire, padded toward the entrance to the Grand Throne Room. His belly swung as he moved—sort of like a church bell, only furrier, and more silent.

The major was hurrying, and the major didn’t hurry often.

Pounce was a dignified-looking fellow, a Jellicle cat with a bit of black goatee beneath his whiskers and tuxedo fur markings that culminated in an unusually big white spot on his glossy chest (of which he was most proud) and four white-mittened paws (which he despaired of keeping clean).

Pounce was an oddity among his peers because he was, well, organized—an attribute no self-respecting cat would aspire to. Pounce embraced his quirk, however, and put it to good use in serving the Feline Empire and its ruler, the venerable and rather ancient Chairman Meow.

Pounce was no spring kitten himself. As a well-mannered eighth lifer, per GFE slang, Pounce generally liked to keep his mind on the finer things—a fancy vest with a matching bow tie, a high shelf to nap on, a sunny patch of carpet, a gently dripping faucet—

Not today.

Today, as Pounce raced through the palace halls, he could think only of one thing: his job, a topic to be avoided in pleasant conversation, since work was the very topic cats despised above all others. Pounce, to the shock of his friends, actually enjoyed it. And a good thing he did, because Pounce’s job was to protect the Feline Empire from threats far and wide, real and imagined.

The GFE had many enemies, but none more feared than the Robot Federation—the Binars. For as long as any cat could remember (which wasn’t that long), the GFE had been at war with the Robots. Nobody remembered how the war began, or even why. In fact, nobody even questioned whether the war was a good idea. Everybody simply accepted that Cats and Robots just didn’t get along.

After all, Binars were a culture obsessed with order and rules. “If This, Then That!” was their motto, which, in Robot-speak, means that every action must have a predictable, logical consequence. Robots believed every question must have an answer: 1 or 0. True or False. Good or Bad. On or Off. “In Certainty We Find Security!” was another Binar motto. Binars liked mottos.

The GFE, in contrast, couldn’t even be bothered to come up with a motto. If they did, it might be a hasty sketch of a cat snoozing in a patch of sunlight. The Feline Empire was not concerned with Rules or Consistency. For cats, questions had infinite answers, from Yes to No and everything in between, including a shrug and a yawn. Make no mistake, cats did have rules, and they agreed rules were generally meant to be followed—but only if you felt like it.

Because cats and robots were close neighbors in the galactic community, they were constantly fighting. Cats often found themselves wandering into robot territory quite unintentionally, creating equally accidental havoc for the robots along the way.

On the other hand, the Robots, quite intentionally, were constantly trying (and failing) to invade and bring order to feline society. The very idea of such a disorganized neighbor as the Feline Empire made the Robots overheat with frustration.

Pounce shuddered when he thought about the Robots’ ultimate goal—to TAME the Cats. He paused and coughed up a tiny hairball at the notion.

The major composed himself and, his swaying belly in tow, loped inside the Grand Throne Room. He slowed as he approached the massive upholstered Grand Throne—and started scratching it.

As one does, when one is a cat trying to get the attention of the chairman of the Great Feline Empire.

The chairman’s chair—the Meow’s Grand Throne—was rumored to be the most expensive and elaborate cat tower ever created. Or rather, towers. Seven, to be exact, each four stories high, with seven separate satin-padded and shag-carpeted curl-up cubbies connected by ramps, silken rope bridges, and slides.

In other words, it was a throne worthy of the claws of the prime leader of the GFE, the ruddy Abyssinian shorthair known as Chairman Meow.

The chairman had a sunburnt-looking orange splash across his nose—and a fine, dark “M” marking between his eyes and forehead, like most tabbies—but the finer hairs of his ears and whiskers had already turned white, and now even his undercoat was going snowy. The chairman was well into his ninth life.

As he anxiously scratched at the base of the throne, Pounce arched his back with gusto (an important expression of respect for a naturally gusto-less breed!) and dug in.

The chairman opened one eye and peered over the edge of the top platform, easily a twelve-tail length above where the major waited. “Oh.” Chairman Meow blinked. “It’s the dull, stuffy one.”

“Your Orangeness.” Pounce nodded. “I have important news—”

“Important?” The enormous cat rolled slowly forward on his fluffy bed, yawning. “I seriously doubt it. Not unless you’re here to tell me the accursed Binars have self-destructed? Or the Canus escaped that doghouse of a prison planet? And the humans . . .” He sighed. “Well, I can’t even imagine a world where those Furless creatures are important.”

“Try,” the major said, clawing a telegram from the pocket of his hand-stitched vest. “Because the Furless are why I’m here. It seems they’ve . . . made an important . . . discovery. We’ve received an urgent message from one of our agents on the Furless planet, along the border of Robot territory. Remember, Earth?”

“Not really.” The chairman yawned as he thrust his massive, rippling stomach up and out, offering it up to the ceiling.

“Well,” Pounce continued patiently, “it appears one of the Furless has created something quite dangerous. Something that could give the Robots a decided advantage in the War.”

Meow groaned. “Danger is boring. War is boring. Let’s talk about something else.”

The major grew frustrated. “Sir, this invention could provide robots with an infinite source of power. They would never have to recharge! If they got their graspers on this, they might even have the energy to reach the very heart of the Feline Empire!”

“Still bored,” Meow purred.

Pounce saw he would need to take a different approach to get Meow’s attention. “This invention could also be a great benefit to you, Chairman.”

Meow stopped licking himself long enough to look at Pounce. “Me? Okay, I’m not bored.”

Pounce used his most dramatic voice. “Rightly so, sir. Because this very same Furless invention could be used to . . . give cats more than nine lives!”

“Wait, huh?” Now Meow tried to sit up, struggling to support himself with a paw at either side. “What are we talking, here? Ten? Twelve?” His belly billowed out toward his splayed feet like a watermelon suddenly trying to fold itself in half.

Pounce shook his head. “Numberless, according to my sources.”

Meow stared. “So like, fourteen?” (Cats were not great with numbers greater than nine.)

“Like forever, sir. Which is close to if not more than twenty.” Pounce shoved the message back into his vest.

The chairman hauled himself up onto all four paws and was now howling over the length of his Grand Throne Room—

“By my gray whiskers, we must have this invention! Send the fleet! Dispatch my . . .” He looked down at Pounce. “You!”

Pounce looked up at Meow and saluted—a quick flick of his white-tipped tail. “Unfortunately, the fleet has gone missing (again), but I am prepared to investigate immediately . . .”

The chairman continued bellowing. “Find the Furless . . . thingy! Find it and steal it, for the glory of the Great Feline Empire! And . . . for the glory of its Great Feline Chairman . . .”

“As you wish,” Pounce muttered, knowing the chairman wasn’t listening, and with that, he hurried out the door of the Throne Room. He returned to his office, directly to his waiting royal assistant to the GFE—a caramel-striped scamp otherwise known as Oscar the Wild—who was busily chewing his favorite random shred of plastic.

Oscar scratched behind one ear. “Did you get . . . the mission or whatever . . . approved? The thing . . . that Furless thing . . . that was so urgent . . . ?” He tried to remember, but truthfully, the intern’s head had a much easier time accepting scratching than thinking.

The major sighed. “Yes, Oscar. We’re off to Earth, for the glory of the Empire . . . and the glory of . . . well, just a whole lot of glory all around. Now come, we’ve got a lot to do to get our ship organized. Pack up my spare vests and bow ties and as many treats as you can carry.”

But then Pounce stopped talking, because Oscar had wandered away to play soccer with his beloved plastic shred.

Meow.