Work Text:
The Tale of the Cat
The day began well enough, with a much-needed cup of coffee, which Illya had waiting for him in a corner of the commissary. Napoleon sipped coffee while Illya read the post-mission report Napoleon had drafted in the wee hours of the night. Yesterday’s misadventure with Thrush was not the sort of thing Napoleon enjoyed explaining to Mr. Waverly, their unsympathetic boss.
Illya stacked the pages together and tucked them into the file folder. “I’ll add my two kopeks’ worth and get it back to you directly.”
“How much time do you think you’ll need?”
“As much time as you’ll need to have another cup of coffee.” Illya stood. “See you in a bit.”
Napoleon took a sip of coffee and watched Illya head out. George Dennell, bearing a stack of files, came through the door just as Illya was exiting. They exchanged a few words. Together, they turned toward Napoleon. George waved, and Napoleon smiled, lifting a hand in greeting. Illya left, and George walked over to Napoleon’s table.
“Mind if I join you for a few minutes?”
“Not at all.”
“Great. I’ll be right back. I need a coffee.” George took a couple of steps toward the coffee line, then returned to the table. “Guess I can put these down.” He plopped the stack of files on the table. As he turned away, he bumped into the corner of the table. The two folders on top slithered from the stack and fell, their contents scattering on the floor.
“Oh geez.” George dropped to his knees and scrambled around at Napoleon’s feet, collecting the pages. Napoleon bent to help, but George waved him off. “That’s okay, I’ve got it, no problem.” George stood and returned the files to the top of the stack. “Whew. Good thing the whole pile didn’t tip over. That would have been really bad.” He sat down.
“Uh, George? Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What do you mean?”
Napoleon lifted his coffee mug and took a pointed swallow.
“Oh. Heh. Be right back.” George went to get his coffee, returned, and was getting settled at the table when Napoleon felt something brush against his ankle. He looked under the table. The office cat stood there, pushing itself between Napoleon’s legs.
“Where did you come from?” Napoleon asked.
The cat looked up at him and said, “The kitchen.”
George said, “A meeting.”
Napoleon shook his head and looked at George, confused. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“I was in a meeting,” George said. “And I have another one coming up.” He took several hasty slurps of coffee. “Ouch. Hot.” He checked his watch. He blew on his coffee, gulped at it, then stood. “Sorry to rush off like this.”
“George. Wait.” Napoleon scooted his chair away from the table. “Did you hear the cat—”
“The cat?”
Napoleon pointed.
George looked at the cat, which was now sitting on Napoleon’s shoes. “Huh. I thought you didn’t like cats. What about him?”
Napoleon shifted his feet and dislodged the cat. “I thought I– I don’t know what I thought. Never mind.”
“Okay,” George said. “I’ve really got to go.” George picked up his files. “See you.”
“See you, George.” Napoleon watched George walk away. He finished his coffee and contemplated getting another. Illya was right; he could use the extra caffeine this morning. He’d worked straight through the night. He looked at the cat.
The cat lifted a paw, licked it, applied the paw to its cheek, then rubbed its face on Napoleon’s trousers. Cat saliva. Napoleon frowned in distaste. “Scoot.”
The cat continued its cleaning routine. Napoleon gave it a nudge with his shoe. “Shoo.”
“Shoo yourself.” The high-pitched voice was sharp-toned, an admonishment.
Napoleon looked around to see who had spoken. He didn’t recognize the voice. No one was nearby. Must be lack of sleep. I’m imagining things. He got another coffee. The cat followed him through the line and back to the table. Napoleon checked the room again, saw no one watching, bent down, and said quietly, “Say something.”
The cat said nothing. Napoleon regarded the cat for a full minute, then relaxed and took a tentative sip of fresh, hot coffee.
“Something.” The odd little voice came from beneath the table.
Napoleon choked on his coffee. He decided it was a good time to get back to his office.
- - - -
The cat padded after Napoleon through the corridor and waited at his side while the elevator descended to the commissary level. Napoleon, staring straight ahead at the elevator door, said, “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Says the man who sits and drinks coffee all morning while his buddy finishes yet another mission report for you,” said the cat.
Napoleon closed his eyes. Rubbed his forehead. Lovely. I’m standing in the hall, talking to a talking cat. Get a grip, Napoleon. When he opened his eyes again, the cat was watching him with an aloof expression. The elevator doors slid open. The cat followed him in.
Wanda was waiting for the elevator when the doors opened at Section II. “Hi Napoleon,” she said, smiling. “I see you have a little friend with you.” She bent down to pet the cat.
The cat said, “He’s no friend of mine, lady.”
Struggling for calm, Napoleon watched Wanda gently scratch the cat behind the ears.
She couldn’t hear it. Neither could George.
- - - -
Napoleon’s office door swished open and the cat followed him inside.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Napoleon thrust an arm against the sliding door, holding it open. “Out.”
The cat stayed put.
“Have it your way. Stay.” Napoleon sat at his desk and called Illya. “Can you come in here?”
“I just finished the report.,” Illya said. “I’ll be right there.”
Beneath the desk, the cat batted at Napoleon’s shoelaces.
Napoleon pulled his feet away. “Don’t scratch my shoes. They’re Italian.”
“Italian, Schmallion. I bet they’re from Sears,” said the cat.
“Hey—” Napoleon stopped himself. This is not my imagination. He reached down to pick up the cat, but the thought of cat hair on his suit changed his mind. He stood and walked around to the front of his desk. “Come here, cat.” He cleared his throat. “Here, kitty, kitty.”
The cat came to Napoleon and kneaded its face into his shoes. Napoleon squatted and hooked a finger beneath the cat’s collar. “Hold still, you. All right, mister smarty-cat. Start talking.”
“Get your hands off my collar, you big goon,” said the cat.
“Not a chance,” said Napoleon as the door to his office opened. “You furry little fiend.”
Report in hand, Illya stood, rooted in the doorway, eyeing Napoleon, and the cat. “I assume you’re not addressing me,” he said.
Napoleon motioned to Illya. “Get over here.”
Perplexed, Illya went to Napoleon’s side. “What’s—”
“Be quiet. Listen. Just listen.”
“Geez, are you always this bossy?” said the cat.
Illya leaned down and whispered to Napoleon, “What are we listening to?”
“The cat.”
Illya’s eyes narrowed. He said cautiously, “The cat?”
“The voice. It’s coming from the cat.”
Illya took a breath, sighed it out, and asked, “What voice?”
“You can’t hear it, either?”
“Napoleon, are you hearing voices? Are you sure Thrush didn’t drug you yesterday?”
“Medical cleared us last night. You know that.”
“Well, they must have missed something.” Illya paused. “I hate to ask this, but is it still talking to you?”
“Not now. But it was, a moment ago. It's been following me, and—"
“Wait. Who can’t hear him, either? Who is ‘either’?”
“George and Wanda.”
“Did you tell them you think the cat is speaking to you?”
“No. Just you.”
“You need to be examined again. Go back to Medical. I’ll give Heather the report.” Illya went to the door, then came back and picked up the cat. “I’d better take your friend, too.”
“He’s not my friend,” said Napoleon and the cat, together.
- - - -
Illya strode into his office, went directly to his desk, and dialed Napoleon’s number. No answer. He called Napoleon on his communicator.
“Solo here.”
“Napoleon, you need to come to my office.”
“Give me a few minutes. I’m waiting to have a blood sample taken.”
“It can wait. I had an idea about the cat.”
Five minutes later, Napoleon arrived at Illya’s office. He took one look at the scene before him and froze. Wanda sat at Illya’s desk. Illya and George stood alongside her. All three wore serious, concerned expressions.
“I’m not losing my mind,” Napoleon said to them. “Whatever you think—"
George and Illya each held up a cat collar.
“Behold: Two cat collars,” said George. “Each featuring a black leather strap, three quarter-inch wide, with five metal studs.”
“Identical,” said Illya. “Except for the subminiature transmitter and microphone embedded in this one.” He gave it to Napoleon. “The cat was wearing it.”
Napoleon examined the collar. He flexed the leather band and brought it closer to get a good look at the metal studs. “We need to get this thing to Security. I’ll—”
Someone snickered.
Napoleon looked up. His three friends were grinning.
Napoleon groaned.
Wanda and George burst out laughing.
“It’s a prototype.” Illya shrugged. “It needed a field test.”
“All right, you comedians. Tell me.”
- - - -
“I snuck the cat into the commissary this morning before you got there,” said Illya.
George pulled a thumb-sized spray bottle from his pocket. “Nepetalactone. A feline attractant. I spritzed it on your shoes when I accidentally-on-purpose knocked over the files.”
Wanda lifted a security monitor from its hiding place under Illya’s desk. “We had eyes on you the whole time.”
Illya opened the desk’s bottom desk drawer. “And ears.” He pulled out a transmitter and microphone set and placed it on the desk. “And a voice changer to disguise our voices.”
“When you were in the commissary, that was me talking,” said Wanda.
“I took over when you left the commissary, so Wanda could meet you at the elevator,” said Illya.
“And that was me, when Illya went back to your office with the report,” said George.
- - - -
Later…
Napoleon looked at them. “With friends like you, who needs—”
Who needs another round?” said Wanda. “Why, thank you, Napoleon.”
Napoleon smiled and flagged down Charlie the bartender. The round was poured, and Illya lifted his glass.
“Here’s to a day I’ve grown quite fond of: April Fools'!"
The End