Cats vs. Robots #2 Page 3

  SLAYAR froze.

  His digital mouth hung open at the sight of such a magnificent—if confusing—metal specimen.

  “What. Is. That?” SLAYAR rolled toward the edge of the stage for a closer look. The Royal Guards stared from their posts. Even Beeps looked uncomfortable, swaying back and forth at the base of the stage.

  “Come closer.” The SLAYAR beckoned with a grasper.

  Clink clink clink clink.

  Obi kept walking as they all eyed him.

  He wasn’t sure what to make of it. The way their sensors never left him. The way they studied his motions, his mechanical articulations. He heard the words being whispered, here and there.

  “. . . mechanical masterwork . . .”

  “. . . a brilliant Maker . . .”

  “. . . clearly not Binar . . .”

  “. . . but robotic genius . . .”

  “. . . such expert design . . .”

  “. . . such craft . . .”

  Obi watched them as intently as they were watching him. He knew the Binars were no fans of the Feline Empire, and he suspected he would have to rely on every available piece of information if he were to find a way off this planet.

  << Now I know the Wengrods made me well, even by Binar standards. That might help me get out of here in one piece, which is more than I can say for that SLAYAR fellow’s poor electric guitar. . . . >>

  As Obi approached, SLAYAR began babbling. He couldn’t stop talking—and the rest of the room couldn’t help listening.

  “But . . . this is a wonder . . . the most graceful robot I’ve ever seen . . . stunning . . . And yet it is also somehow . . . revolting. I feel . . . an absolute revulsion . . . rising in my circuits. It is so . . . so . . . CAT-LIKE!”

  Obi interrupted. “Yet I am a robot. A machine.”

  SLAYAR frowned. “But are you? Really?”

  “He is,” Beeps assured him.

  “I am,” Obi repeated, twisting his head all the way around on his neck roller.

  “He is,” the guards agreed, watching the head trick.

  SLAYAR considered, tapping one metallic grasper against the other. “I’m torn . . . I admit it . . . I don’t know whether to have this . . . freak . . . destroyed, or”—a smile emerged—“to invite him onstage to join my band. . . .”

  “No, thank you,” Obi said.

  Beeps swallowed. “He means . . .”

  “Silence!” SLAYAR said, not even looking at Beeps. “As much as I hate to admit it, this—what is the name of this model?”

  “Obi,” Beeps said.

  SLAYAR nodded. “Obi is . . .”

  The Royal Guards waited.

  Beeps waited.

  Even Obi wasn’t sure where SLAYAR was going.

  “Obi is . . . FREAKING COOL!”

  The guards murmured and muttered in surprise.

  Obi frowned.

  Beeps looked around the room, speechless, as if it was all he could do not to ask, “Is everyone else seeing this?”

  Only SLAYAR looked happy. He tried to hide it, but his smile grew wider, and it became clear to everyone in the room that SLAYAR had developed a ro-bro-crush on Obi . . .

  . . . until SLAYAR noticed everyone staring at him and snapped right out of it.

  “Er, I mean, freaking cool . . . for a . . . FREAKY CAT THING!” SLAYAR kept his eyes glued on Obi. “Beeps, you say the Singularity Chip we were looking for is inside . . . this FREAKY CAT-THING . . . ABOMINATION?”

  “Guilty as charged,” Obi answered calmly.

  Beeps rolled nervously into a chunk of guitar.

  “The Singularity Chip is indeed implanted and fused into my systems.” Obi leaped effortlessly onto the stage, to give everyone a better look.

  “I should also note that my consciousness, my memories, all the experiences of my nine lives, have been similarly implanted and permanently fused into the Singularity Chip.”

  Obi turned to reveal the small glowing cube inside him.

  Excitement rippled through the room.

  The robo-cat continued. “You might say we are an inseparable pair. It’s a bit complex, and rather cutting-edge. I’m afraid there’s no other creature, technology, or being anywhere in the galaxy quite like me. Singular, you see?”

  << A calculated strategy. CAT-SPLAINING and ROBO-SPLAINING to SLAYAR. The biggest of no-no’s. Hopefully. >>

  Obi was banking on the possibility—or rather, the high probability—that anyone with a rock-star-sized ego might have an issue with not being the singular main attraction, or not even knowing how that singular main attraction worked.

  << Irritate an inflated ego and hope he wants to send me away, or even back. >>

  “WHATEVER!”

  SLAYAR slammed his graspers into the stage, startling Obi. The mechanical cat leaped gracefully back down to land at Beeps’s side, below the stage.

  “You”—SLAYAR pointed at Obi—“don’t talk in riddles and don’t treat the SUPREME LEADER like an eight-bit moron!”

  << Here we go. A dangerous game, for a fellow on his tenth life. If that’s even how I can count this one? >>

  “I’m so sor . . .” Obi began.

  “Zip it!” Beeps hissed, cutting him off.

  SLAYAR glared at both robots.

  “I’ve had enough of this. Just give me the chip. NOW.”

  “Unfortunately, Your Shininess, what the—the Obi said is true.” Beeps hesitated. “The chip has been, er, permanently merged into his . . . the FREAKING CAT ABOMINATION THING’s . . . body.”

  Obi smiled.

  It felt good to smile, even a mechanical one.

  “Impossible?” SLAYAR growled. “Oh, I believe anything’s possible . . . with the right motivation. Don’t you agree, Beeps?”

  He gestured with one grasper, and the lights dimmed.

  In the center of the chamber, a holographic image appeared. A desolate black mountain bellowing red-tinged smoke.

  The Royal Guards reacted with shock.

  The holograph changed, the view zooming inward and upward, until Obi could see a gaping crater full of bubbling lava, giant rising geysers of magma, spilling and oozing down the sides of the mountain.

  SLAYAR’s voice called out from the stage. “Recognize this, Beeps?”

  Beeps couldn’t believe his eye. “You can’t be serious, sir.”

  “What is it?” Obi whispered.

  Beeps was panicking. “I knew SLAYAR was angry, but I didn’t expect him to threaten Slag Mountain.”

  “Slag Mountain?” Obi knew it didn’t sound good.

  Beeps couldn’t seem to move his eyes from the terrible glow of the holograph. “Slag Mountain. The Great Recycler. The heat so great that no known metal had ever survived it. No punishment is more feared on Binar than being Slagged. . . .”

  “Oh, Beeps.” Obi was really starting to feel for the strange rolly fellow.

  “Well, Beeps?” SLAYAR interrupted again. “You have one week to get that chip out of the CAT THING—or, I guess, the CAT THING out of the chip—or whatever, you know what I mean!”

  “I really don’t,” Beeps said.

  “Well, I do,” SLAYAR snapped. He was clearly flustered. “Fail me, and both of you get a ONE-WAY TICKET TO SLAG CITY!”

  Even the guards twitched with fear at the threat. “Slag City?!”

  Beeps looked like he was going to fall over.

  Obi surreptitiously extended one metallic paw, righting him more solidly on his wheel. Just in case. They’d had enough dings and dents for one day, the two of them.

  He shook his head, or rather pivoted it a bit.

  This SLAYAR had demanded the impossible of both himself and his captor, and something equally impossible had happened: their survival, or their doom, had become permanently linked.

  Obi and Beeps.

  Robot and Robo-Cat alike.

  SLAYAR brought the lights back up and stared at both of them—wild-eyed, full of rage. Beeps took one look and began to roll toward the Throne Room
exit portal as quickly as he could, dragging Obi along after him.

  The two robots didn’t speak until they were safely inside the elevator again.

  “We need to figure something out,” Beeps finally said.

  Kkrinkkk-krinkkk.

  Obi’s tail twitched, clink-scraping against the chrome floor. The sound was unnerving, which was how he felt.

  “We need something, indeed.”

  What did they need?

  What did one do, on the verge of a great Slagging?

  Obi felt a surge in his circuits as he thought again of his faraway Furless planet home. He wondered if Max would know what to do. Max, or Min.

  If they would be worried. If they were, now.

  He thought of the ever-irritating kittens . . . the kindly faced Javi . . . even the metal-head Protos prompted a strange sensation of longing . . .

  . . . of family.

  That was what they had been to him. That was what they had taught him. Obi could do anything, but he could not do it alone.

  << That’s it, then. I need to speak with Pounce. He’ll know what to do. >>

  Obi lifted a rubber-capped paw and touched the medallion still around his neck. He could use it, but only at great risk; the Binars knew his medallion functioned as a translator, but what they didn’t yet realize was that it was also a transmitter capable of communicating at great distances . . .

  . . . even as great as the distance between Binar and the planet Felinus, seat of the Great Feline Empire . . . and home of his old friend Pounce.

  Obi would need to find an excuse for some kind of privacy if he wanted to use his medallion to secretly call for help. . . .

  Because he did want help. For himself, and for his odd and anxious newfound companion. Because they shared one thing, at least, in common . . .

  They very much did not wish to be Slagged.

  Obi sighed.

  << Pounce, old friend, I do hope you can figure out how to get me out of here. >>

  4

  Woe Is Meow

  Across the galaxy, on the planet Felinus, a rather bulky Chairman Meow fidgeted atop his sprawling throne. The grand structure dominated the Throne Room and looked like the most elaborate, spectacular cat tower imaginable.

  Meow twitched and scratched.

  With great effort, the prime leader of the Great Feline Empire rolled his enormous orange body this way and that, unable to get comfortable. The chairman wanted to nap, but today, like most days of late, he was consumed with thoughts of life and death.

  Meow, a ruddy Abyssinian shorthair, was well into his ninth life, and as each day passed, he worried that it might be his last. His concern grew with every newly shed, snow-colored hair that floated down from his throne.

  Giving up on rest, Meow growled as he twisted onto his belly and set his head down on his two front paws, looking down from his perch on the eleventh level of his beloved throne. He quickly spotted his familiar nemesis—a mysterious glint of light that bounced and jumped around on the floor far below.

  During his early lives, Meow was known to hunt the light relentlessly, sometimes spending entire minutes bounding around the Throne Room.

  The light always returned, much to Meow’s annoyance.

  “I will catch you,” Meow said quietly . . . but inside he wondered if he had enough time left, even to hunt the light.

  He sighed.

  Meow’s ear twitched as a faint but familiar tapping sound interrupted his dejected thoughts. As it grew louder, he recognized the off-beat tapping as the footsteps of his second-in-command, Pounce de Leon.

  Pounce’s right forepaw had one stubborn claw that would never fully retract and poked slightly through his paw. For his entire lives (eight, so far), the claw tapped against the floor as he walked—an irregularity that made it impossible for him to sneak properly and, unfortunately, had thus invited a fair amount of bullying as a kitten.

  “Finally,” Meow said, heaving himself up just as Pounce entered the room; the dignified-looking tuxedo cat seemed a bit tired and more tentative than usual, which was not a good sign.

  Pounce was also alone, which was an even worse sign.

  As it registered that Pounce had arrived empty-pawed, Meow’s heart sunk.

  Pounce had been sent on a critical mission to Earth to recover a rare invention that, Meow had hoped, would solve his pesky problem with mortality.

  Dispirited, Meow dispensed with formalities and asked the obvious question.

  “Where is my, um, you know, that thing that I sent you to get—what was it called?” Meow’s grasp of the finer details was steadily fading with the years.

  “Singularity Chip, Your Furness,” Pounce said wearily. “Did you not get my messages? I sent multiple detailed after-action reports describing the encounter on Earth.”

  “Not one.”

  Pounce paused and nervously licked a spot that was already quite clean. “At least I think I did,” he said to himself quietly. As one of the few truly organized cats in the empire, he was well versed in pretending to blame himself for the poor executive skills of others.

  Meow gave an indignant hiss. “I never read those things, you know that!”

  Pounce leaped up onto the lowest level of the throne, hoping to get a better view of his leader as he broke the news. “Well, to be brief, Chairman—I’m sorry to say that the mission was a failure. Mostly.”

  “Mostly?” Meow moaned.

  RAWRRRR.

  “How can you mostly fail?”

  Pounce tried to put a bold face on. “Well, the good news is I saw the Singularity Chip successfully used to extend a brave GFE soldier’s existence beyond his ninth life. You remember Obi? Our agent on Earth. . . .”

  Meow’s ears perked up at the news, a faint spark of hope in his increasingly clouded eyes. “Wonderful! And of course I remember,” Meow said, of course not remembering. “Brave soul, that Obi. So happy to hear he’s well.”

  “Quite well, sir. Although”—Pounce hesitated—“he was required to take on . . . a particularly robot-like form. . . .” There was no easy way to say it. “But by all accounts he is, or I should say was, very much alive and well.”

  “Robot-like?” Meow howled, hopes dashed again. “Was?”

  He rolled onto his back exasperated, legs flopping and limp. His old heart couldn’t take much more of this emotional roller coaster. (Either that, or the seventy-four anchovies he’d eaten at breakfast were not sitting well with him.)

  Pounce paced in circles, trying to spit out the bad news. “Obi’s original body had been worn down, quite unsustainable. And the invention, the chip, does require the subject to . . . migrate . . . to a new robotic form.”

  “Ew! Disgusting!” Meow exclaimed to the ceiling, then paused to consider. “How did it look?”

  “Quite impressive, actually. Highly mobile, strong, capable. Cat-like—in almost every way.” Pounce smiled. “I could use a bit of robot myself, particularly in the left hip, at least on rainy days . . .”

  “Maybe a robot body wouldn’t be so bad,” Meow mused.

  “Before you go further with that thought,” Pounce interrupted, “the chip is permanently attached to Obi’s body. It is Obi, in a way, and can’t be used again.”

  The chairman hissed with annoyance. “Seriously? Such a rare opportunity and they WASTED it on what’s-his-name? At least bring him in so I can take a look,” Meow said.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Pounce winced and braced himself as he revealed the final bit of news, the piece that had been troubling him most of all. “I’m sorry to say that Obi was taken by the Binars. Back to their home planet.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “At best, to be examined. Thoroughly. At worst? Quite possibly taken apart . . . permanently.”

  Pounce could hardly stand to think about it. He found himself staring at his collar communicator at all hours of the day and night, pacing the length of the palace, wondering what to do. If he reached out at the wrong
time, he knew he could get Obi into even more trouble. But if he didn’t reach out in time, well, it could be too late to help his friend at all.

  “On my ninth and final life,” Meow gasped, and nearly rolled off his platform in despair, “they’re going to destroy the chip?”

  “And Obi,” Pounce said diplomatically. “Most likely, yes.” He arched his back and scratched at the throne, because sometimes that’s all a cat can do.

  After an awkward moment of silence, the massive orange lump on the throne stirred. “Pounce de Leon,” Meow said as he heaved himself upright, as dignified as possible. “You have served me loyally for many lives, but this failure is unacceptable.”

  “Yes, Your Meowjesty,” Pounce said, head low.

  “I need the chip. And, yes, if it must be, a robot body. I don’t have much time, which means you have even less. I am giving you one week to correct this.” He looked down at Pounce, angry and desperate. “Fail me, and I will have no choice but to make an example of you . . . and banish you from the Great Feline Empire.”

  Pounce froze, ears twitching.

  Banishment would be a death sentence for a cat like Pounce, who was a decidedly indoors, in-Empire type of cat. He paced in a tight circle, panic building. “What would you have me do, Chairman?”

  “How should I know?” the old cat wheezed. “Make a new one. Create a time machine and go back and fix this mess. Whatever it takes,” he gasped dramatically, struggling as he coughed up an ancient hairball. . . .

  “Just GO!”

  I’ve never seen the chairman so furr-ious!

  The sight of Meow in such a state startled Pounce. As he trotted—and tapped—away from the Throne Room, he tried to compose himself, but inside he was full of furry worry.

  It was time to risk making the call.

  He needed to talk to Obi.

  He pawed at his medallion collar to activate it—and was still preparing to send a waiting signal—when a familiar voice sounded on the other end of the collar communicator. “Pounce, is that you?”

  Obi.

  The tuxedo cat looked startled, then relieved. “Obi, thank goodness, are you safe?”

  “For now—but not for long. I’ve managed to give Beeps the slip, but we don’t have much time to talk.” Obi’s voice was low. “Things are bad, old friend.”