Harry Goldman awoke early in the morning and watched as the sunbeams poked their way through the window of the cabin. He wondered what kind of research he’d be doing later on. The place was the Catskill Mountains in upstate New York. The clock on the night table next to the bed read six-thirty. As for the date, it was June fourteenth. Finally, he assessed his current situation... perfect. With that assessment, a smile broke across his face.

Summertime now, warm and lazy days past and upcoming, he sat up and stretched, his furry limbs extending and twisting lazily in the cool air. Everything had been peaceful for the last few months. No interruptions, no battles, and best of all, his wife, Anastasia, lay sleeping beside him.

For anyone at his age—nineteen—it might have seemed a little young to get married. Too early, opined the experts. Too unusual, said the scientists. What would happen if they procreated? Too unlawful, said the courts.

Concerning point number one, it was a matter of opinion. As for point number two, who cared? However, with number three, it happened to be the biggest bone of contention.

At first, the authorities didn’t know whether it was legal to marry them. “This is a case that will set a precedent,” said their lawyer. “You have to admit, this is somewhat out of the ordinary.”

Somewhat out of the ordinary was just an expression, but it encompassed so many possibilities. Harry and Anastasia were anything but ordinary. As hybrids—or transgenic creations, a mixture of feline and human created by science—they could not be considered anything other than extraordinary.

Arguments for and against the legalization of their marriage took place in the US Supreme Court. The media had a field day with it, and Harry and Anastasia became celebrities, but not by choice.

In a statement to the press, Harry said, “I was born in Portland. I am an American citizen. Anastasia was born in Russia, but she has attained American citizenship, and we are both legal residents of this great state of New York. I see no reason why our marriage should not be allowed.”

Simple words, but they were most persuasive. Pundits and pseudo-experts argued for and against their marriage, but in the end, wiser heads prevailed. The judges took into account Harry and Anastasia’s former human status, the fact of their citizenry, and the fact that it was an election year. A couple of months after they’d filed their claim, Harry received a phone call from his lawyer. “Go ahead,” he said.

Harry and Anastasia got married the same day at City Hall, and the justice of the peace was only too happy to perform the ceremony, complete with pictures and a wedding cake she’d purchased out of pocket.

Carefully slipping out of bed so as not to wake his wife, Harry pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and padded over to the window to gaze out upon the greenery of the forest surrounding their cabin. A single dirt road led up to the place, and the nearest residence lay about a mile to the east.

Call this the ultimate getaway. They had privacy. They had food delivered every week by their handler at the FBI, although some of the other permanent residents of the Catskills dropped by from time to time. It made for good conversation. Drop in on the cat people, talk to them, and maybe even get a picture.

Then there were the true friends. Harry’s best friend, Jason Parham, a computer expert and all-around nerd he’d known since junior high school, lived in the city. His girlfriend Tina, another code-cracker, lived near him. They worked for the FBI as experts in computer surveillance and tracking, although Tina did most of the practical work. Jason was into gaming and anything anime, and he came along strictly as backup to his more Internet-savvy girlfriend.

In his last email, he’d written we have got to link up, man. It’s been too long!

When we have the time, Harry had written back. I’m still on my honeymoon.

Never mind he and Anastasia hadn’t gone anywhere. They’d decided to stay in the Catskills, walk around the forest and creeks by day and run by night, savoring their freedom. At times, Harry wondered if his animal genes were beginning to override his human ones. It was possible, but he had something going for him that others did not.

He had genius. His father had been a DNA researcher in the field of transgenics, and Harry had inherited his father’s intelligence and then some. As one of the foremost experts in transgenic research, even at his young age, he’d completed his own work and gone beyond most everyone else in the field. That was how the FBI had found out about him over a year before. They’d arrested him for allegedly doing illegal research.

“I was doing computer tests,” he’d objected at the time.

They came straight to the point. “Too bad.”

Long story short, the law did not take kindly to having a seventeen-year-old nerd-slash-genius turn evolution on its head. Harry got tossed in jail for his efforts. But during his stay, Anastasia had been arrested in New York that same year by the police, who’d subsequently turned her over to the FBI. She’d suffered from amnesia, but gradually remembered who and where she was from.

Who she happened to be was a young woman roughly nineteen years of age, dying of AIDS, who’d been kidnapped by a crazed scientist. Where she’d come from—Russia. The scientist had used a combination of drugs as well as something called a Genesis Chamber to transform her into a hybrid with the express purpose of using her talents as a spy.