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.