16

Obi Meets His Match

Obi tried to nap, soaking in the last few rays of the afternoon sun, but his mind kept returning to his conversation with Pounce. After all these lives, he finally had work to do. And he had no idea how to do it.

You’re going to have to improvise, Pounce had said. The understatement of nine lifetimes! Obi could hardly walk, let alone sneak, into the house next door, find and steal some mysterious invention of galactic importance, and stroll out unnoticed!

Obi opened his eye just a slit and saw the metal-heads next door, gathered at a window, watching.

Enjoy the show, he thought, as he stretched and started licking his bum.

Harmless, clueless, barely qualified to be called robots. Like children, most certainly unaware of the greater Cat-Robot conflict, ignorant of the powerful invention in their very midst.

Nonsensical claptrap, their kind.

He heard Max walking his way, a welcome distraction. The old cat waited until the boy settled himself on the crumbling stone wall, just as he had every day for as long as Obi could remember.

Then, the furry creature summoned what strength and what dignity he had—not much, honestly, but then again, he was ancient enough to feel as if he’d lived a thousand more lifetimes beyond the nine he’d been owed—and used his forelegs to propel himself up and out of the stroller, just enough so that he could flop awkwardly down to the old stone wall.

“Hi, Obi.” His boy smiled.

Obi threw his weight forward, dragging his limp back legs silently across the stones with him, until he could finally flop himself next to his boy.

This time, however, there was a brown cardboard box between the two of them.

“Obi, look. I’ve brought you some friends, Stu and Scout.” His boy slowly lifted open the top of the box.

Two bedraggled-looking kittens with wide eyes slowly lifted their heads over the edge of the box, one at a time.

Blessed Sphinx, Obi thought. Kittens?!

The spotty kitten narrowed its eyes and let out a tiny croak at the sight of Obi.

KRKKKKKKKKKKKK!

It was a sound normally reserved for tree rats, Obi knew.

Very insulting.

He let out a laugh—and the gray kitten arched its back in response.

Obi pulled his head back, trying to get a better look at the dirty scamps. They weren’t Insiders; he could smell the street on them from where he sat.

Strays?

Dumpster kittens?

What street trash has he brought me now?

Now the spotty kitten hissed.

The boy laughed, but he was also careful to keep the box partly closed. “It’s okay, they’re just scared. I wanted you to meet because I might need your help with them. They’re going to be living with me for a while, but . . . I never had any pets before.”

Come again? A pet?

Obi stared at Max with glittering eyes, trying to absorb this new development.

His boy kept going. “I mean, none except you, and you don’t even live in the house with us. You belong to Mrs. Reynolds.”

You’re bringing this filth into your home? With you?

In the house? Your house?

Obi blinked one eye. Then, a second—and entirely different—line of thinking popped into his walnut-sized brain.

He began to improvise.

Obi eyed the tiny heads in front of him.

But these . . . runts?

How do tiny necks like that even support those . . . pebble-sized . . . heads?

Max stroked the pebble heads. “I couldn’t just leave them back at the river where I found them, right, Obi? Min wants to get rid of them at a shelter or something, but I don’t think I can do that to them.”

Obi shuddered involuntarily at the mention of Shelter, the maximum-security facility where animals went in but rarely came back out.

The very thought of such a horror chastened him, and he resolved to be entirely more charitable toward the strays in front of him.

Obi was an old snob of a cat; he wasn’t a villain.

Now Obi scratched an imaginary itch with his leg and cleaned his fur just long enough to gather his composure.

“I was thinking . . . maybe I could just keep them in the basement? They couldn’t get into too much trouble down there, right?”

Obi sensed Max was deeply concerned. He gave a tired sigh and, reluctantly, hobbled forward on two paws, dragging his hind legs, and licked his boy’s hand with his rough tongue.

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.