by Chris Hechtl
His father, Richard Cosmos, III, was a short man with a bit of a gut. He'd made his initial capital as an inventor years ago. Sure, many of his inventions had failed miserably, some had turned into hazards, but his father had finally listened to mom and followed her forecasts of future trends. They'd made quite a formidable team after that. Which was why he'd invested a lot into the designer pet prototype business. It was the latest rage.
Anyone could have a mundane pet—a cat, dog, fish, hamster, whatever. Those pets had been bred for generations to take on certain looks. Panda hamsters for instance. But when science advanced to the point of hands-on genetic engineering, that changed. Back in 1999 scientists had gotten into the first designer pets by engineering zebra fish with genes from a jellyfish. The genetically modified creature had glowed florescent colors in the dark.
That had kicked off a lot of interest in gene manipulation. The ability to cross species boundaries had been an eye opening experience for the public. Then the whole pet cloning trend had kicked up briefly. The ability to repeat a pet, to in some sense have them back at a small fortune had appealed to many. Of course the clone was a different being, shaped by their new experiences.
He hadn't been alive when Lagroose Industry's genetics division had introduced miniature lions and such. He'd seen a few and been tempted to get a mini tiger. The ability to take the traits of a lion and map their coat and structure onto a domestic cat's genome.
There were times he was tempted to switch fields to genetics. But unfortunately he was destined for other things, he thought, looking at his father then back to the cage in the back corner of the room.
The creature was named Gizmo, named after a creature called a Mogwi from some famous old movies. He and his kind had been created to showcase the new techniques in genetic engineering. He was a new class of chimera and was unique in many ways. He had been created from scratch, not an original genome altered with viruses and other techniques. Biogen owned his genetics outright.
He had been created to look slightly like an ancient Furbee, a small hand-sized creature with stubby legs and arms. He had no tail but big bat-like ears. His body was covered in a soft pelt that could be tailored to the customer's desire. Once they were certain they had the design they wanted, the scientists had cloned him, altering the sex of the embryos as well as their pelts to order. The Mogwi 2.0 generation had been born to order.
Others of his kind had been made before, the 1.0 and 1.5 generation derived from altering Capuchin DNA and mixing in other animal traits to get to the desired end product. The designer pets had been wildly popular at first, especially when they were young cubs. But when they grew to adults, their owners lost interest in them. They became increasingly feral, and over a short period of time, they would lose their hair and become violent. Violent to the point where they had a few incidents and had to be put down. Biogen had taken a black eye over the incident, but a promise of restitution as well as hefty payments for people to remain silent had smoothed things over with their customers.
Investigators took the project apart to see what went wrong. The scientists did as well. Apparently the first Mogwi creator had introduced frog DNA to try to replicate hermaphrodite reproduction under the skin due to exposure to a controlled nutrient cocktail (not water). The nutrient bath would be a product of Biogen and tightly controlled to prevent excessive breeding. However, the project's ambitions was highly flawed; seeing embryo's growing under the skin had turned out to be a major turnoff for marketing during customer studies. Also, the nutrient solution would eventually be taken apart and then replicated illegally so the project had been terminated. But the alterations in the DNA had been left in the current generation, just switched off, or so they had thought.
According to the investigator's final report, when the animals underwent puberty and were exposed to high levels of hormones, aggression, and sunlight their DNA had mutated unlocking the genes. Corrections were made to the follow-on batch.
Gizmo was a second generation Chimerian. His genetic line had been created to address the fur loss problem and rapid growth issues. He kept his cute cuddly look even when he grew to adulthood. But like the first generation he became feral, angry all the time. The good news was that he hadn't lost his white and brown fur, grown to triple his size with long limbs, and a reptilian skin with sharp shark-like teeth.
Since they wished to continue to observe him as a control for the population, he was kept in a small corner cage in the dark recesses of the lab. Doctor Catheter, the senior doctor of the lab insisted on keeping him under controlled conditions not just because his eyes were extremely light sensitive, an unfortunate side effect of the genetic tinkering, but also to minimize light exposure in case he was vulnerable to mutation.
Bill always sought the cage out; he'd done so every time he came into the room. It was like a magnet. He wasn't sure if it was because the little matted guy was the underdog, neglected and forgotten, or because he was so strange. He was sympathetic, that much he knew.
“Come on little guy,” Bill said, trying to tease the little guy out of the ball he was in. When he opened the cage door, that got the Mogwi's attention. But before an orderly could stop him, he reached in and tried to pet the brown and white pelt. Gizmo snuffled and tried to get away. When he was cornered, he turned and lashed out to bite the young man's hand viciously.
“Owe!”
“He get you?” Bob asked coming up behind him. “I've warned you before, kid.”
“Yeah,” Bill said. “Yeah I know.” Bill drew his hand back, dripping blood, but he stopped himself from pulling back too fast. He saw the flash of defiance in the Mogwi's eyes as he closed the door.
The young man didn’t take it personally, nor did he scold the chimera. The orderly did, then bandaged the cuts, nattering on and on about getting into trouble until Bill assured him he was fine and wouldn't rat him out. “I like a challenge.”
“They should put that little monster down. He's nothing but trouble. He escapes all the time. They had to lock the door, and it's a bitch to clean the cage,” the orderly muttered. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” Bill said. “Like I said, I like a challenge.”
He did some research on animals in labs and feral animals. That got him thinking until sunup the next morning. He stared at the rising sun, then down to his wounded hand. No one should have to spend their life in a cage he thought, mind filling with resolution to do something about it.
After that incident Bill came to the lab often, every weekend if he could arrange it. Each visit he took special pains to stop at the corner cage and talk with the creature. Each time he brought something, usually a treat. He began the process of socializing him. The contact and loneliness in the creature broke down psychological barriers over time. He still got bit or scratched when he attempted to handle the little guy, but it didn't faze him. He simply looked hurt and told him no.
Gizmo would stare at him, growling, ears back, uncaring about the human's condition or opinion. A passing vet tech looked in at the brown and white creature and sniffed. “He's vicious, that one. They should put him down, but Doctor Catheter wants to keep him as a control for a little while longer. He's almost escaped a few times.”
“You caught him though?”
“Well, yeah. We have a chip implanted in him to track him, but he's tricky.”
“I think I wouldn't want to spend my life in a cage,” Bill said. He looked up from the folding chair he had been sitting in while doing his homework on his tablet.
“Aren't you uncomfortable there?” the vet tech asked, eying him.
“A bit,” Bill admitted, putting the tablet away to rub at the small of his back. “They didn't make these contraptions for comfort.”
“No lumbar support. Honestly, don't you have something better to do? Somewhere to be?” She hinted.
“I'm with a friend. Call it … a project. Bedside and all that,” Bill replied, smiling and turning on the boyish
charm. She took it in, snorted again, softer this time then shook her head smiling.
“Well, be that way.”
“Can we get him out?”
“I don't see how.”
“If I can come up with one, something that won't let him escape?”
“I'll talk to the boss. But it'll be your ass if he gets loose, kid. Son or not they'll ban you from here,” she said, indicating the lab.
He nodded. “I'll be careful.”
Gizmo overheard that conversation and got a crafty mischievous look on his face. He schooled his expression to neutral when the human Bill looked his way.
The following weekend Bill came in carrying a tangled mess of leather and metal. Two orderlies followed him in. “Come on, this is a waste of time.”
“The boss said to give him a shot.”
“Yeah well, have the nets and lassos ready anyway,” Bob said warily. “Okay, kid, you're on,” he said, taking a pole down. He tucked it under one arm and then placed his hands inside long thick leather gloves.
“Hey there little buddy,” Bill said softly, coming up to the cage. “Hey, it's me,” he said, dropping a treat through the bars. Gizmo pounced on it. Bill had found the little guy liked sweets, but he also liked chicken. Fried chicken nuggets went over well with him.
The smell woke Gizmo. He turned over and, sniffing, then rubbed his tummy. Bill smiled, careful to cover his teeth with his lips. His research warned him a show of teeth could be construed as a sign of aggression in animals. Training himself to not give a toothy smile was difficult.
Gizmo's eyes fluttered open; he sniffed, then turned and pounced on the piece of chicken. He gobbled it fast, then turned to look at Bill. Bill tossed him another piece. He snapped that up too. “You like that?”
Eventually Gizmo came to the bars and grasped a pair near the door with his tiny hands. He saw Bill and nodded to him.
“You want out? Giz?”
Gizmo nodded eagerly. Each time he was taken out of the cage by the big man he had a chance to look around, to possibly escape.
“Okay, I had to agree with the doc and vet here. So, bear with me bud,” Bill said. “Think of it as something to tolerate,” he said.
“We'll watch you,” the orderly said, holding up a stick with a lasso on the end of it. “And that little monster.”
“He'll be fine,” Bill insisted, but he couldn't quite suppress the doubt in his voice.
Gizmo fought the urge to growl as the big human manhandled him. This one was gentler than the others, but he was still touching him. Not that he could do much about it. The human was ten times his size and incredibly powerful. He could pin the chimera to the ground with one hand, and Gizmo knew that the human was keeping his own strength from harming him.
“We'll clean his cage and fix a few things while you've got him out,” one of the other orderlies said.
“Okay. I think he'll appreciate it. I know I wouldn't want to have to live in my own waste or eat in it,” Bill said as he finished up.
Gizmo grunted as he looked at the thing Bill had put on him. The human had put him in a harness and shock collar. He clipped a lead to the back of the harness then stepped back to let him out. Gizmo tried to get the harness off, but Bill had studied his opponent carefully. He watched as the little creature tried to unbuckle the straps but they were locked on with a luggage lock through the hasps.
When Gizmo realized he was trapped, he climbed out of the cage to the ground, then immediately lunged at Bill's leg. If he bit him and clawed the human, he was certain the other man would drop the leash.
“Watch it! The little bugger is quick!”
“I know,” Bill said, moving back. When Gizmo continued his attack, growling, he checked him with the leash. Gizmo turned to bite it but the inside was a titanium wire. There was no way to chew through it.
His distraction, however, allowed Bill to lift him up off his feet. He swung about wildly, growling before he let go of the leash and dangled there.
“We'll um …”
“Should we put him back?”
“No, let's see if he calms down first,” Bill said.
“He's worse than the monkeys,” one of the orderlies said darkly. He set his stick aside then edged around Gizmo to get to the open cage. “God it smells rank in there.”
“You haven't cleaned it in how long?” the other orderly said.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It's a bitch like I said.”
“It's still your job. Just be glad he's not sick or something.”
“The trays can be swapped. This thing is like a bird cage, or was. He got smart though so we had to take extra precautions,” the orderly said, ignoring his partner. His hands unlocked the tray panel and then slid out the filthy stuff. “Peanuts?”
“Hey, I was bored. He likes ‘em,” the other orderly said spreading his hands apart.
“No, he doesn't eat them.”
“You gave him them?” Bill asked. Gizmo twisted, spinning slowly, drinking the room in. When he faced the orderly he reached back and scratched his own rear end, growling.
“Watch it, he might throw his own poop.”
“Or the peanuts. We clean up the ones he throws back,” the first orderly said, scraping the tray. “This crap is caked on. And the urine has been etching it,” he said, one hand over his mouth. “I'm going to gag.”
“You should have worn a mask, dummy,” the second orderly said with a sniff then cough. He put the back of his hand over his mouth. “God, it is rank. Get it out of here.”
“At least I'm wearing gloves,” the first one said. They weren't latex gloves; they were heavy duty leather gloves he used to grab and hold the little monster whenever he needed to be handled. He was still in awe that Bill had handled the thing without them on. The kid was brave or stupid.
“You throw the peanuts at him?”
“And he throws them right back. It's sort of a game,” the orderly said defensively. Gizmo growled at him when he got back to facing him.
“He starts throwing poop like the Capuchin monkey's do after two weeks of being in this. Sometimes sooner,” the first orderly said as he moved the tray at arm's length away. “I've got to get this outside and hose it off.”
“Great. So what do we do with him?” the second orderly demanded.
“I'll take him for a walk,” Bill said.
“You what?”
“You going to behave, Giz?” Bill asked, slowly dropping the leash to allow the Mogwi to touch the ground once more. “Well?”
Gizmo snuffled, ears drooping. Finally he wiped at his nose and nodded.
“See? He's cool. Come on, buddy, let's go take a walk.”
“He's not a dog!”
“No, he's … never mind,” Bill said as he walked away.
“Look man, I appreciate the help and all, but if he gets loose, it's our ass,” the second orderly said. He looked over to the other guy and heard a loud crash and moan. “Frack.”
“Go check. We'll be fine,” Bill said. “I'm taking him to the rose garden outside.”
“Yeah, right. Make sure he's back in his cage in twenty minutes. You know, before Doctor Catheter comes around or it's on all of us. Bob, you idiot ...” the second orderly said, moving off to follow in Bob's wake.
Bill shook his head. “Yeah, I don't blame you for not liking them. A real pair they are,” he said, looking down to Gizmo. Gizmo looked up to him, snuffled, and then moved off.
Bill gave him some slack and let him go on his own. He followed at a slower pace, his long legs easily keeping up with the little guy. They walked around the sterile room. “A lot of cages, huh?” he asked, looking in a few. Weird and wild animals looked back at him. Some were pitiful. Others were sleepy. He'd deliberately come when it was close to nightfall in the complex. Those animals that weren't nocturnal were ready to turn in for the evening.
It was all a part of his plan. The space station turned the lights down to simulate night to keep a normal bio
rhythm for the occupants. They even had wind and weather in the four-kilometer-long cylinder.
Gizmo quickly learned to stay out of arms reach of the other creatures in the room. Some reached out to try to grab him so his ears dropped and he took on a defensive posture as he moved along. After their second circuit, he stopped moving around and went back to Bill.
“You think we can work on your fur? You've got a lot of mats. I know you don't like getting wet, but I know you'd feel better,” Bill said. He pulled out a pet brush.
Gizmo eyed the thing warily. Bill knelt next to him and tried to brush him. When Gizmo growled he stopped, waited, then tried again. At the third louder growl, he stopped and held the handle out to Gizmo. “Okay, you try,” he said.
Gizmo sniffed the brush, then looked at the human. He was tempted to bite the hand but decided not to for some reason. Instead, he took the brush but found its size and his small hands made it unwieldy. Finally he gave up and dropped it in disgust.
“Here. May I?” Bill asked.
Gizmo stared at him. Bill picked the brush up then ran it down the Mogwi's spine in one stroke. The second stroke made Gizmo close his eyes in pleasure. He chirred softly.
“There, see? Not so bad,” Bill said, voice soft as he brushed him. When he got to a tangle he did his best to be gentle as he worked it out. Sometimes it came out, sometimes he had to untangle the brush and try again. He picked fluffy fur off the brush and tossed it in a trash can nearby, then went back to brushing the Mogwi's coat.
When he got close to the bald ears Gizmo's eyes opened and he turned on him. Bill stopped, frozen until Gizmo turned and rubbed and nuzzled the brush. He seemed to exhale slowly and then try again, even doing the little guy's tummy.
The grooming felt great to Gizmo. The care of another being felt good. But then a finger tickled the base of his left ear, making him itch and drop to his rear to scratch. Bill chuckled. He turned a growl on the human. “Sorry,” Bill said stifling his guffaws.
When he started again, he wasn't quite finished with mischief. Gizmo lifted an arm to allow him to groom his flank but surprised himself when electric thrills ran through him. He giggled, which got Bill going. “Oh ho! The little grumpy guy is ticklish! Even you are a softy!” he teased as the arm went down defensively.
