Catnip

by J. S. Frankel

  Chapter Four

  Getting to Know You

  “Whatcha gonna do about it?”

  Dream state time once again, and memories of days past circulated through Harry’s mind. He’d gone to the Portland University lab a couple of years before in order to check on some data and maybe work on his pet project, protein synthesis. Most of the regular students already knew of his reputation. Some liked what he did, others called him a nerd, and most of them left him alone. Whatever, he just wanted to do his research and go home.

  On his way out, however, as he crossed the football field to get to the parking lot, a couple of jocks in their football uniforms decided to have a little fun. He saw them amble over, observed the way they swung their arms around like apes on steroids, and hey, target practice time! They walked right into him and knocked his books to the ground. “What’s your problem?” he asked.

  Smart response, but from the grins on their faces he knew this would not end well. The myth of a jock’s brain being of inverse proportion to his bicep rang in Harry’s head for a moment…and then he decided it was no myth. He stood rooted to the spot and stared at the guys who outsized him by five inches, at least sixty pounds, and a lot more muscle.

  “Do something, wonder kid,” one of them said, openly smirking.

  Frozen with shame and incapable of moving a muscle, he let his eyes scan the turf and measure the blades of grass, and the thought of what can I do entered his head. One of the players picked up a textbook and dropkicked it twenty yards away. “Go on, punk, tell me the physics equation for that,” he taunted.

  Yeah, what could he do? The jocks would have to ruin his day, and they dared him to formulate a rapid response to counteract their threat. He might have been ten times smarter, but in real life—and real-life confrontations—he was the ant and they were the boot. They knew it, too. Both dudes stood there, every muscle in their bodies tensed and waiting for the chance to whip his butt just for the sheer fun of it.

  Harry wouldn’t let them. Without a word he bent over, retrieved his books, went to the parking lot to find his booted text resting atop a car and took the bus home. Inside his house, he didn’t bother glancing at his father who sat in the den picking through the daily paper. After blindly finding his way to his room, he sat at his computer and silently raged at his own weakness.

  “Harry?”

  The elder Goldman stood in the doorway. Harry rotated on his chair in the opposite direction. “I’m studying, Dad.”

  No, he wasn’t. The computer hadn’t been turned on. He’d been staring at it, unmoving, for over twenty minutes, feeling like a lab rat caught in a cage with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait for the next experiment. In short, he felt powerless.

  Even the ordinarily friendly confines of his room gave him no comfort. He likened his room to a castle, a sanctuary, a place where he was in control of his own life and his own destiny, but now, he sensed a total lack of control, and he sure as hell didn’t have the heart to do any research.

  The elder Goldman walked in and sat down on the bed. He was smart enough to know by the expression on his son’s face—one of worry and fear—that something bad had happened. “You had yourself a bit of a problem, didn’t you?”

  Reluctantly, Harry nodded and related the incident. His father sighed. “I went through the same thing when I was younger. Fighting back isn’t the best way, but sometimes you have to.”

  Yeah, Harry thought, fight back and get my ass kicked. “You once told me I could fight back in different ways.”

  “You’re not thinking of using itching powder, are you?” The look on his father’s face could only be described as horrified and Harry recalled the incident that got him suspended in junior high.

  “No.” Shame washed over him. “But what am I supposed to do?”

  His father shrugged and patted him on the shoulder. “Hit back. You did once before in junior high, remember?”

  Anguish boiled to the surface and a hot gush of tears tickled his eyelids. With a massive effort, he fought back the urge to bawl. “I got my ass kicked, Dad. I’ve always gotten my ass kicked!”

  A nod came his way…but this time his father didn’t offer any sympathy. “Yes, you did, but you did what you thought was right. No one really likes fighting except the terminally stupid, but sometimes you have to. You may lose, but there’s no shame in losing. There is shame in not doing anything about it if it means losing your self-respect.” He got up and left the room, and Harry sat there thinking about his father’s words.

  Soon after, boxing videos became his exercise. It was just him and his shadow and time to beat up on it. Too shy to join a gym and feeling too weak, he searched the Internet and found a few instructional videos, and after his parents had gone to work and he’d completed his studies for regular school, which took all of ten minutes, he jogged on the spot, practiced murdering his sun-cast image for thirty minutes with jabs, crosses, and uppercuts, and did pushups and sit-ups and bodyweight squats ad infinitum in an attempt to carve a reasonably buff bod.

  Try as he might, though, while he gained endurance and a little strength, he didn’t develop the muscles capable of intimidating anyone from punking him. Bad genes and all that, he mused after another sweaty, all-out training session. Still, he hoped that if a problem arose in the future he’d be ballsy enough to hit back…

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  The voice came like an insistent mosquito whining in his ear, and the question was repeated. “No, I want to sleep in,” he mumbled.

  “Wake up!”

  The pain in his temples forced him into consciousness and he sat up groggily and inspected his surroundings, a splitting headache temporarily obscuring his vision. He was still in the lab, sitting on a cot. Farrell stood three feet away, his face impassive as usual. “Are you okay?” he repeated. “I brought a cot down from the storage room.”

  Harry rubbed his jaw. “What happened?”

  The agent started to laugh. “We had a rerun of Wild Kingdom, that’s what,” and then he cut his mirth short and got serious. “The technician got carved up pretty good and you’ve been out for a few hours. It’s night time, around eight-thirty. She’s a hell of a fighter, I’ll give her that. I had to tase her three times before she went down, but we got the blood sample.”

  He pointed to the table where the computer was. Talk about an upgrade! An electron microscope had been brought in, a centrifuge, and a whole host of other equipment including a DNA analyzer, all of which piqued Harry’s interest. “You feel well enough to run some tests?” Farrell asked.

  “What did the technician say?”

  “Wait a second.” He walked out of the room and Harry swiveled his head over to look at the cell. The girl was lying down in a fetal position, her tail twitching slightly, and a few incoherent sounds tumbled out of her mouth.

  The sound of the door opening interrupted him. The FBI agent returned with a file folder in one hand and a cup of water and some aspirin in the other. Harry gratefully took the medicine, and after choking the bitter aspirin down with the water, he waited for the ache in his head to subside.

  Farrell indicated the file in his hand. “We called in one of our female doctors to examine the girl while you were sleeping. I wouldn’t want to be accused of molesting a woman, or whatever that thing is.”

  He smiled, but somehow Harry failed to find the humor in it. In fact, he found this whole experience a massive fail, with the exception of the girl. Curiosity bit, though, and he asked Farrell what information he’d found. Perhaps it would help him in his tests, he reasoned.

  The agent opened the file and read out, “Subject, name and place of origin unknown, seems to be a recipient of transgenic experimentation, a cross between a cat and a human. Height, five-seven, weight approximately one-ten, has yellow eyes and feminine features. Also has breasts and female genital organs, the development of which indicates someone approximately twenty years of age.”

  He shut the file an
d tossed it on the table. “Not much of an examination, I’ll agree, but there it is. The blood sample shows mainly human blood, but the rest? The lab figured it was cat’s blood. There were also traces of drugs in her system, sodium pentothal for one.”

  Harry knew what that drug was. “So who’s giving her truth serum?” he asked.

  “I have my suspicions,” the agent answered.

  “Do you feel like sharing, or do I have to guess?”

  Farrell stared at him and his voice got hard. “Well, aren’t you the sarcastic nerd? Kid, I’m doing you a favor by keeping your butt out of max lockup. You’re the hotshot researcher, so you should be able to whip up an answer in no time.”

  He really loves playing the hardass, Harry thought. He wanted to respond, but his head still hurt, and although the ache was fading, the agent started in on a rant about his long years of service to his country and how he had to play nursemaid to a cat-lady and a chemistry geek.

  Rant over, Farrell rubbed his temples and calmed down. “Look, we need your help. Can you do an analysis first?”

  Slowly and painfully getting off the cot, Harry walked over to the machine, and a slow thrill spread through his body. Farrell watched him examine the machine with interest. “What does this thing do exactly?” he wanted to know.

  Now Harry was in his element, and he put the pain on the back burner. He’d always felt more at home in a lab and was anxious to try out this faster-acting device. All the others he’d used took up to a day. This one took considerably shorter time and was just about as accurate.

  “Well?” Farrell inquired with an impatient tone in his voice.

  Harry ran his fingers over the control panel of the machine, getting the feel of it. “It analyzes STR’s, which means Short Tandem Repeats.” He could barely keep the excitement out of his voice.

  Farrell gave him a blank look, which made Harry feel somewhat superior in spite of his surroundings so he did his best to explain. “Okay, in simple terms, STR’s are part of everyone’s DNA structure. The variations in DNA are called polymorphisms. Everyone’s STR’s are different, and that’s how the forensic guys figure out murder cases and paternity suits and so on. This machine should tell us what her biometric profile is. Do you have a swab from inside her mouth?”

  Farrell shook his head no. He ran out of the room and came back ten seconds later, entered the cell, Taser in one hand and Q-tip in the other. He needn’t have bothered with the weapon, though—the girl was still out cold.

  After getting the sample, Harry put it on a bio-chip cassette and inserted it into the machine. The onboard computer started blinking which meant it was analyzing the data. “How long is this going to take?” Farrell asked.

  “About ninety minutes,” Harry answered. “We have to wait.”

  They sat down and the agent went out twice to get coffee. When he returned the second time, he drummed his fingers restlessly and then the results flashed on the screen which made the teen gasp in amazement. “What is it?” Farrell wanted to know.

  Harry pointed at the screen. Three separate matrices had appeared. “The DNA on the left is from a person,” he said, and indicated the helix with his index finger. “The one on the right is the DNA of a cat. The one in the center is her DNA. They’ve been combined.” He stopped talking, and realized his own ideas had been brought to reality by someone else.

  Farrell looked at the screen more closely. “So she’s a product of genetic engineering, a transgenic?”

  A soft moan disturbed the proceedings before Harry could answer. The girl had woken up and was sitting with her back against the wall, shaking her head. She muttered something that sounded like nstasia. She turned her eyes on him and regarded him with an air of curiosity.

  The agent moved in to get a closer look, only to be greeted by a yowl of rage. A fine spray of spit sifted between the metal bars followed by another vicious yowl and a swipe of her arm. He barely evaded her claws. Wiping the spit off his suit, Farrell went to the door. “She seems to like you better,” he remarked amiably.

  Harry recalled the Taser incident and couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Gee, I wonder why.”

  Farrell’s expression turned to stone. “Stick to doing what you do best, kid. I’m going to get some more coffee and check on our sources.” He disappeared out the door before Harry could say anything.

  Harry turned back to face the cat-girl. He tried to separate the human from the animal. She had a cat’s ears, whiskers and eyes, but the mouth was human, as was the body. The prisoner stared at him and he figured since she wasn’t going to volunteer information, he might as well get in some DNA research time. He quickly downloaded the information to his computer and began working. The way to translocate cells had always been done by use of a protein compound. He’d managed to synthesize one, and maybe that would be…

  “I’m sorry I hit you.”

  The voice—feminine—came from behind him. He spun around on his chair, amazed beyond amazed. His own curiosity aroused, he got up and went over to the cage. “You can talk?”

  “Yeah, I can talk,” she answered. She leaned over briefly to sniff him as if getting his scent, and drew back. Her voice sounded high, girlish, and also flat, without emotion or inflection. “I just didn’t feel like it around that FBI agent. He’s not my kind of person.” She paused for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice came out in a low, guttural growl. “I hate being called Miss Kitty.”

  Harry’s mouth opened and closed spasmodically for a few seconds. Okay, she could talk…and maybe she knew a lot more than she let on. “Um, my name’s—”

  “You told me,” she interrupted. “Your name’s Harry Goldman. I’m…”

  Her face twisted in a sudden spasm. It seemed as if she wanted to say something and something else was blocking it. Had she been hypnotized? He’d always thought hypnosis was total crap, but this seemed real enough…and then he remembered she’d had traces of truth serum in her blood. It seemed someone didn’t want her to talk about anything. It didn’t make sense, though. Truth serum was designed to make a person spill their secrets, not hide them.

  The cat-girl closed her eyes and her body shook. “My name’s Anastasia,” she said with difficulty. After a series of rapid breaths, her body relaxed. “I’m Anastasia.” She smiled as if she’d surmounted some formerly and heretofore unreachable obstacle.

  Anastasia—she had to be Russian, he thought. Yet she spoke perfect English with no trace of an accent. Well, she could have been born in the States and someone could have given her that name. “Do you know where you’re from?”

  Her smile disappeared and she slowly shook her head. “No.” She bit her lip as she struggled to get the details out. “All I remember is wooden walls, bright lights, and something in the room.”

  Her answer confused him. “You mean someone, don’t you?”

  “No,” she answered sharply. “I mean something.”

  Anastasia fell silent and he edged in a little closer to the bars. She came over and slowly reached out to touch him on his arm. It was a curious gesture on her part, her fingers surprisingly soft with a hint of iron under the skin and fur. Once again, he felt a tiny thrill run up and down his spine.

  “I am sorry I hit you, okay?” Her voice sounded contrite. “I got scared when I didn’t know who you were and then I saw the equipment. It…reminded me of…”

  She blinked as if trying to retrieve the information, and then shook her head. “I can’t remember.” She withdrew her arm, groomed her face and shoulders, and then flipped her hair back.

  “Did you say before that you were a scientist? You’re sort of young.” A quick laugh followed and her tone became a little warmer. “I guess I’m pretty young, too.”

  Her touch flustered him. This was about the longest he’d ever spoken with a girl without either sweating buckets or saying something stupid. “I, uh, I’m studying transgenes. I’m not a scientist, but my father was…”

  Anastasia stiffe
ned and her gaze went to the door. Harry turned around and saw Farrell standing there, his eyebrows arched in a gesture of mild surprise. He wondered how long the agent had been watching. “I see she can talk,” Farrell said in a slightly condescending manner. “Maybe having you around here is a good thing, kid.”

  I’m not a kid, Harry thought angrily, but held it all in. “Did you find out anything?”

  The agent shook his head. “No, we don’t have any leads. This is our only lead.” He regarded Anastasia with a certain amount of wariness. “If I let you out, are you going to be nice?” He tapped the Taser on his belt with one hand, and with the other he indicated his pistol.

  “That depends,” she answered in a cool voice.

  “It depends on what?”

  She stared hard at the agent, and for a change he blinked first. “On whether you tell me what you know. Oh, and my name is Anastasia, not Miss Kitty. Do we have that straight?”

  Farrell nodded. “We do.”

  It all seemed fair enough.

  Anastasia came out of the cell slowly, sniffed the air cautiously as if testing it for contaminants or other dangers, and after finding none, settled down and took a seat on the cot. “So, your name is Anastasia?” Farrell asked.

  “It seems like it is. I can’t remember my last name.”

  She offered nothing else. Farrell took a deep breath and told her how the authorities had found her two days ago. He related all the facts as he knew them, and after he’d finished, she shook her head and said, “I don’t remember how I got here. I remember the homeless guys in the alley, I remember the police jumping me and holding me down, and when I woke up, the first thing I saw was the cell.”