Cats vs. Robots #2 Read online

  Huggs was a natural talent, and by the time he graduated high school, he had merged his digital friends into an incredibly advanced “personal assistant” that he called House. Without realizing it, Huggs had built a replacement for the thing he most wanted: caring parents and a familiar home. House was the all-seeing, all-knowing voice that understood him and could anticipate his needs. House could do everything he wanted.

  Huggs saw the financial potential of his creation and released House to the world for others to use. It was an instant success.

  Yes, House recorded and tracked your entire digital history, but it saved people so much time. It even saved lives! Before long, different versions of House were installed on almost every device imaginable. House made living easy, and Huggs wealthy, but never wealthy enough. Driven by the ghost of his perma-frowning grandfather, success didn’t satisfy Huggs—it only made him more ambitious, and House was his secret weapon.

  Huggs used House to spy on a global scale. House listened to conversations, read emails, texts, even scanned photos and videos. Huggs learned people’s secrets and used them to buy or sell at just the right time, and, occasionally, for blackmail. He gained a reputation for being the smartest dealmaker, always a step ahead of the competition, almost psychic.

  The truth was more sinister, and simpler.

  Huggs was a big nasty cheater.

  House did everything in its power for Huggs, but still had a difficult time deciding what Huggs wanted to hear. Like now.

  “What do I make of it all?” House repeated to give him a few more seconds to think. “Well,” House tried, “the Roachbot infiltration was a stunning success.”

  “Obviously! It was my idea. I don’t need analysis on how we got eyes and ears on the inside.” Huggs bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, impatient.

  “True, true,” House stalled and tried a potentially risky response. “Of course, the mention of M.E. Portillo was something of a surprise.”

  Huggs winced at the name.

  Portillo.

  House knew she was the only person to get the better of him in a deal. He was still upset about how much he paid for her tech. He saw Portillo as a do-gooder, social-justice warrior.

  “Pfft,” Huggs scoffed. “Portillo is a show-off. Oh look at me, I’m solving global warming! I’m helping poor people!” he said, mocking her generosity. “She is a nuisance. A threat, but nothing I can’t handle.”

  House tried again. “Then you must be referring to—”

  Huggs interrupted, impatient. “House, I’m asking about the Infinity Engine!”

  “Of course,” House said, relieved to finally be given the answer. “The Infinity Engine would be of immeasurable value as a power source and AI processor for robotics. If this engine is truly powerful enough to contain a human mind, that could be quite interesting.”

  Huggs paced around his desk, picking up speed. “Yes, that would qualify as interesting. Making a copy of myself? After all, what’s the use of having so much money if I’m not around to spend it? I can buy governments and own islands, but I’m not going to live forever. What if I could conquer time itself?”

  Huggs’s pacing accelerated to a slow speed-walk, looping around his office, arms swinging. House knew this meant he was excited. House realized there was more to Obi and the chip than just money. Huggs knew how to cheat the average human. The ultimate trick would be to someday cheat death.

  He stopped as he passed his pug and picked up the pungent pet. “Bah! Dreams of eternal life are just that. Dreams. We live in the real world, right, Duggy?” He gave the dog a kiss on the head. “We want the engine for the money. And power.”

  And to squish that annoying feeling of wanting something that he just couldn’t have, House added silently.

  “These Wingrubs made a massive breakthrough with the Singularity Chip, and we let it slip through our fingers. If this Infinity Engine really is so much better,” Huggs said, “we can’t afford to make the same mistake.”

  “But it isn’t finished,” House reminded Huggs.

  “Then we let them finish it,” Huggs said, stroking his pug absently. “And then we take it.”

  “How do you suggest we do that? We have the Roachbot on the inside, but it’s not capable of a major heist. The Wengrods have increased their security. We can’t just walk in and take it.”

  “Well, you couldn’t, my body-less friend,” Huggs said, condescending. “I could, or I could pay someone to take it, but it might end up with explosions. Too messy. No, force is not optimal, and they certainly won’t sell it, at least not to me, especially with Portillo in the picture.” Huggs sat, pug on his lap. “We need them to give it to us. The question is, how?”

  “We need more data,” Huggs said. “Continue to monitor Roachbot’s feed. Focus your processors on the problem.”

  “As you wish,” House said, already on it.

  Because the trick to seeming intelligent, even artificially intelligent, was to know the question before you were asked.

  8

  Flea Freak-Out

  SCRITCH SCRITCH SCRITCH!

  “I have never itched so much in my life,” Stu complained, scratching his right ear madly with his left lower paw as Min retreated in horror at the sight of the flea.

  Scout ran over to investigate, playfully tackling him. “Haha, Stu, Stu, you got bugs on you!” she taunted.

  “No, you do!” Stu said crossly. He shoved her off, biting her ear once for good measure.

  “I do not!” Scout sprung at him once more, clocking him once across the whiskers with her best right-hook paw claw.

  He was too busy scratching to care.

  And it was hardly even a full minute later that Scout found herself flinging her furry butt down on the floor next to her brother . . .

  . . . and beginning to scratch her own ears.

  SCRATCH SCRATCH SCRATCH!

  Scout wailed. “Ah man, I have bugs too? This stinks!”

  “NO, YOU DO!” Stu said, tackling her back, because cat siblings were just like human siblings, and because turnabout was fair play.

  Scout knew she had it coming.

  Min came out of the bathroom after washing her hands. “Max, I swear, every time I start to think I can handle having cats in the house, they take everything to a new level of gross!” She stomped to her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

  “Okay, drama queen,” Max shouted back. “It’s not like they’re tarantulas . . . or black widow spiders . . . or even cockroaches!”

  CREEEEAK!

  The familiar sound of old mattress springs. Max guessed his sister was standing on her bed.

  “I don’t care!” The muffled shout came from behind her bedroom door. “I’m not coming out until you DE-FLEA those things!”

  Max looked, pleading, to his parents, but they had already started sneaking toward the lab door. The Wengrods were really not good bug people.

  “We’d love to help Max,” Dad said, “but, you know, that Infinity Engine isn’t going to make itself, right?” He sounded relieved.

  “Good luck!” Mom gave a sheepish wave, and they retreated, looking guilty.

  “They’re just a few fleas!” Max shouted after them. “Cowards!”

  “Well, looks like it’s just you and me, little man,” Javi said. “I’m no expert, but I think the kittens probably need a flea bath.”

  “Oh yeah? Um . . . Huh . . .” Max stood up, looking around the room for a distraction. “Was that my phone?”

  “No,” Javi said.

  “I’d better check,” Max tried feebly.

  “Max.” Javi looked at him. “Who’s the cat daddy here?”

  “Are you kidding?” Max frowned.

  “Who rescued Stu and Scout?”

  “Javi!” Max sulked.

  “Whose bed do they sleep in?”

  “Don’t tell mom.” Max sighed.

  “Whose stomach do they knead like . . . homemade slime?”

  “All rig
ht.” Max slumped. “But you gotta help.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Javi said, wheeling the whiteboard back toward the lab. “And I’ll pitch in, this one time,” they said encouragingly. “You get those little Scratch and Sniffs downstairs, Max. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Max felt a warm rush of gratitude. Javi was really the best.

  “Why is this happening?” Scout wailed. “Do you think it has something to do with that Wrong-Shelf Bug?”

  “Stop with the shelf thing!” Stu bellowed.

  Both kittens scratched like mad cats, unable to reach the right spot.

  “It’s like the itches know we’re coming,” Stu moaned.

  Scout wailed. “They just move around to mess with us!”

  SCRITCH SCRATCH!

  Scout gave up scratching and sprinted around the room, trying to outrun the itch.

  WRRRRRRRRR!

  Joan floated up into the air for a better view of the chaos. “Cy, I need you to investigate. I’m seeing what looks like a potential contamination on the four-leggers.”

  “O-o-o-kay,” Cy said nervously. “On it, Commander.”

  Drags powered up from the lower shelf. “I’ll watch his six.”

  “Me tooooo!” Tipsy rolled out behind him . . . and fell flat on her face.

  “Solo mission. Stay back,” Joan barked, hovering.

  Cy rolled cautiously out of the lab and slowly approached the kittens. “Subjects appear to be jumping around like crazy. . . . I’m not sure why. . . .”

  “Go in closer, Cy! We need sensors-on confirmation,” Joan called down from above.

  “A-a-a-affirmative.” Cy inched toward Stu, who was now wiggling and writhing like a worm on his back.

  “It itches so bad!” Stu howled.

  “Sensors forward.” Cy frowned, rolling even closer . . .

  . . . as the kitten clawed even more furiously . . .

  . . . and a tiny flea leaped into the air . . .

  . . . then another . . .

  . . . and another . . .

  . . . all landing unceremoniously on the uppermost piece of Cy’s metal frame.

  “Wh-wh-wh-what was that?” Cy spluttered. “D-d-did it LAND on me?”

  Overhead, Joan detected the movement and realized the danger. She’d spent hours on the lab server wiki preparing for just such a moment actually. “BUGS! BUGS!” Joan called the alarm. “We’ve been breached! IT’S BUGS!”

  “B-b-b-bugs?” Cy said, confused. “On ME?”

  “BUGS!” Drags slammed against the hall wall in confusion. “WE’VE GOT BUGS! CONFIRMED BUGS!”

  “Bugs!” Tipsy shouted happily, smashing into him.

  The Protos didn’t know exactly what bugs were, but they knew they were bad. Joan had crashed more times than her memory could count, suffering the indignity of being carried back to the lab in pieces—always because of bugs.

  Whenever Tipsy fell over, the parents would say something about “bugs.”

  Even the recent nastiness with the House spy had been described by the Doc Wengrods as the AI “bugging” them.

  Joan knew bugs were bad news.

  “Retreat!” Joan sent the command at high alert as Drags buzzed and swerved, following her back to the safety of the lab.

  “Me treat!” echoed Tipsy, spinning after them. “Me treat!”

  Bringing up the rear, Cy raced back into the lab, the tiny stowaways stubbornly clinging to his metal frame . . .

  The door slammed after them.

  Stu was so itchy he barely noticed the Proto panic. In fact, he was so itchy he hardly noticed when Max reached down and picked him up, holding him as far away from himself as possible.

  “It’s okay, buddy. I got you now,” Max whispered. Stu hung limp, defeated, letting himself be carried downstairs. It was exhausting, all that scratching.

  “Wait”—scratch—“for”—scratch—“me!” Scout, too curious to help herself, followed them down the stairs.

  When they reached the basement, Max dropped Stu on the bed and went back to push the door shut.

  Stu leaped to his paws. “No, no, no! Not this room again! This is where they trapped us last time!”

  “I don’t care,” Scout said. “I’ll never care about anything ever again because my life is only scratching and itching.” She climbed up the side of the bed and flopped over next to her brother.

  SCRATCH SCRATCH!

  “I’m going to miss the upstairs,” Stu complained. “I liked the smells. I’ll even miss the metal monsters. They weren’t so bad.” He tried to grab his tail. “I just wish I had longer legs so I could reach my back.”

  SCRITCH SCRITCH!

  SCRITCH SCRITCH!

  “Don’t start whining to me!” Scout snapped. “This is your fault! I should have stayed away from you. I was perfectly fine. What did they call these things?”

  SCRATCH SCRATCH!

  SCRATCH SCRATCH!

  “Fleas.” Stu plopped down, tired of scratching. “I think.”

  “Fleas?” Scout sniffed her way around the bed. “Are we going to be trapped down here forever? Alone with these . . . fleas . . . and itches? Is this our life now?”

  Stu started gnawing at his fur again. “I hope not. I wish Obi was here.”

  Scout agreed. “Yeah. The old cat was grumpy, but at least he knew things. He’d know what to do.”

  Javi came downstairs, holding a plastic bag.

  “Good news! I found the supplies I bought when we first rescued these fur balls. I bought shampoo for them, and check it out.” They pulled out a bottle. “Flea control! Am I a genius, or what?”

  “Genius, I guess?” Max sat at the edge of the bed, tired and stressed. “I’m just a kid, Javi, I don’t know about fleas! I barely use shampoo myself. What are we supposed to do?”

  “Well,” Javi said, looking at the bottle, “let’s see, it says here, ‘FOR USE ON CATS ONLY,’ okay, so far, so good. Hmmm, it also says, ‘CAUTION, may cause substantial but temporary eye injury”—Javi glanced nervously at Max—“and skin irritation.’”

  Javi continued reading the label to himself, bushy brows growing furrowed.

  “What?” Max threw his hands up in despair. “Eye injuries? Irritations? What is this stuff?”

  Javi finished reading the label and sat down next to Max. “It’s fine, I swear, those are just warnings. I mean, it’s not like we were planning on using this stuff as eye drops. As long as we’re careful, we just give them a good scrubbing, rinse them down and we’ll be golden. Flea-free, you and me. Okay?”

  Max looked at Javi, pained.

  “And I’ll help.” Javi sighed. “As usual. Don’t worry. We can wash ’em up in the shower down here, I’m pretty sure there’s even a handheld nozzle we can use.”

  Max took a deep breath. “Fine. Might as well get it over with.” He grabbed up a bag of cat treats and started crinkling as he walked toward the bathroom.

  “Treats!” Stu and Scout heard the sound and sprinted to Max’s feet immediately, licking their chops.

  Things were looking up already.

  Max led them into the bathroom, and Javi closed the door behind them. Max stepped inside the shower, holding out a palmful of treats.

  Stu hesitated at the shower door. “Um, Scout, this place smells weird.”

  Scout jumped ahead. “Fine, stay there. More treats for me!”

  “I didn’t say you could have them.” Stu couldn’t miss out on the treats. “Hey, wait up!”

  As soon as Stu went in, Javi squeezed in and shut the shower door behind them.

  THDDDDDDD.

  “Another trap!” Stu jumped at the sound. “Scout, we’ve been bamboozled! What’s going on here?”

  Max turned on the water, slowly at first, while Javi got the shampoo ready. With no way out, Stu and Scout sat down, dejected, and accepted their soapy, watery fate.

  “This is the worst,” Stu said, while Scout was getting a good scrubbing.

  Scout closed her eyes. “Hey,
at least it’s warm, and we’re getting scratches. It feels . . . kind of nice.”

  After a good scrub and a better rinse, the kittens looked like scraggly creatures from outer space. Too tired to fight, they let Max and Javi wrap them up in fluffy towels and rub them dry.

  “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Javi said, satisfied. “And no temporary eye injuries!”

  Max smiled. “It was kind of fun, actually.” They dried the kittens as much as possible before they escaped into the room.

  “You look ridiculous.” Scout laughed at Stu’s messy fur.

  “You do too, sis,” he replied through a yawn. After all the excitement, he was too tired to tease. He hopped on the bed, curled up on a blanket, and closed his eyes.

  “Good idea,” Scout said. She stretched, then squeezed next to her brother on the blanket, warm and sleepy. Soon they were fast asleep.

  Javi and Max quietly climbed the stairs and closed the door behind them.

  Moments later, a tiny speck appeared from a fold in the blanket and hopped on Stu’s back, followed by another that bounced onto Scout.

  “THEY’RE ON ME! THEY’RE STILL ON ME!” Upstairs in the lab, Cy was living up to his name as a cyclone spinner, whipping his metal wiring around in circles over his head.

  CRASH!

  The trash can went flying.

  “Slow down, Cy! Slow down and we’ll try to help you!” Joan said, hovering over him.

  CRASH!

  Tipsy went flying.

  “Stop, Cy! Stop this at once!” Drags howled.

  WHRRRRR!

  Elmer, the robot Min built for the Battle of the Bots competition, crawled forward slowly on four limbs. The Protos respected Elmer because—though a bot of few words—he had advanced AI and could go up and down stairs, like all the fiercest warriors.

  Now Elmer rolled toward Cy.

  Cy was in panic mode now, spinning, faster and faster . . .

  WHRRRR!

  . . . Elmer extended a robotic arm . . .

  . . . farther and farther . . .

  . . . until . . .

  KRKKKKK!

  Elmer’s arm smacked roughly into Cy, pinning him against the wall with a jolt!