Popular Clone (18 page)

Inside, jumbled up with his mother's gear, he found two things. One was a tiny Spy Suit for FP. The other looked like an ordinary backpack, but was, in Fisher's opinion, the most cunning camouflage device he had ever devised.

There was one last thing to do. Fisher snuck his way into his mother's chemical storage locker, just like that fateful day when he'd first gotten the AGH. He found the AGH canister in the exact spot he'd left it.

“Just in case they agree to give it to him,” Fisher said, and took the canister down. “This is all my fault. No matter what, I can at least keep Dr. X from getting his hands on it.” He drained the AGH into his mother's perfume bottle, which he had swiped on the way downstairs. Then he filled the AGH canister with water, and took the perfume bottle back to his room.

He closed the locker carefully, retraced his path back through the lab—minus the pit stop in the centrifuge— and returned to his room, where FP was still trotting around in excited circles.

“Okay, boy. Hold still.”

FP did
not
hold still as Fisher tried to get his front legs into the pig-sized Spy Suit. He finally managed one back leg, but FP began trying to flap his forelegs to get away.

Sighing, Fisher reached into a food pouch in a drawer and pulled out a handful of raisins. He held the front end of the suit up and waved the raisins around until FP's eyes were stuck on them. One final swoop made FP lunge, and Fisher caught him with the suit, zipping it up around the pig's body before FP had the chance to wriggle out of it.

“Now try to get a little rest,” he said. “We leave as soon as it gets dark.”

CHAPTER 18

Some people go deep-sea fishing. Some people go rock climbing. I go on thrilling exploits of deadly peril.

—
Vic Daring (Issue #41)

The sun was just setting when Fisher woke up, having slept in his Spy Suit for luck. He checked each piece of equipment one at a time. He was scared, but he had run out of options. His lying and sneaking around had only made things worse. He was the cause of this mess, and he had to fix it. He only had until dawn to save his clone. There was no time to waste.

“You ready, little pig?” he asked the sprawled form of FP, who continued to snore. “FP?” Fisher prodded FP with a toe. “You were really excited about this earlier.”

More snores.

“I guess I'll just have to eat all of these spy snacks myself,” Fisher said, sighing exaggeratedly. FP was alert and facing him so fast he almost left a blur trail. “All right then, boy. Let's do this.”

As a thin rope descended from a second-floor window of the Bas house, the neighbors' houses remained dark, their inhabitants unaware of what was about to take place. A small, skinny boy silently climbed out of the window and lowered himself to the ground, and a pig glided after him gracefully, before crashing not so gracefully into an enor-mous cabbage.

Fisher snuck across his small side yard, avoiding security-bots by hiding between two of his mother's towering eggplants. After he heard the last security-bot pass, he padded lightly to the side of the wall.

He slipped a pair of gloves out of the suit's built-in pockets and onto his hands. He placed one hand on the wall, and the glove adhered to the brick like Velcro, its thousands of tiny strand-like hooks burrowing into the many cracks and chips in the brick surface. The soles of his boots were coated with the same material, allowing him to climb the wall like a spider. FP, with a running jump and some frantic flapping, managed to land right next to him at the top.

Fisher turned around and took a long look back at the house. He shivered, wondering if this would be the last time he ever saw it. His parents' room was dark. They had not yet returned from his father's lab. They were, he knew, already hard at work on their own plan to get him back. He just hoped he could recover Two before they found out what was really going on.

And if somehow Fisher managed to get himself—and his clone—out of this mess, he swore that he would never, ever,
ever
clone himself again.

They dropped down from the wall, FP using his wingflaps to slow his fall, Fisher relying on his highly cushioned shock-absorbing boots. They cut across a neighbor's backyard, crushing a few flowers in the process. FP looked up at him when they reached the street.

“What is it, boy?” Fisher said, crouching low. “Do you sense something with your porcine instincts? Is there danger near?” FP poked Fisher lightly with one hoof. “Did we forget something essential? Are we in need of more gear?” FP gave a single, faint squeak. “Or are you already thinking about the spy snacks I promised you earlier?” FP hopped happily, and Fisher sighed. “Okay, okay.”

Fisher reached into a small pouch on his back and got out a little pouch. He held out the mix of apple slices, raisins, and chicken he'd made for FP, and FP munched contentedly for a few minutes. Then, satisfied, he raised himself proudly on all fours, his snout pointing in the direction of their destination.

“Okay, boy,” Fisher said, putting the food back. “On we go.”

Cloaked by the darkness of night, the two companions crept along shadowy streets and sidewalks of suburban Palo Alto, ducking into bushes or behind buildings whenever the occasional car passed.

Halfway to their destination, the relative darkness of the streetlamp-lit night was interrupted by a blaze of light. Across the street, Fisher saw the King of Hollywood illuminated like a runway, spotlights crisscrossing back and forth to celebrate its opening. The place was packed, and a line of cars eight long trailed out of the lot.

Fisher ducked as one of the spotlights swooped down toward him. The scents of grilling onions, star fries, and spicy sauce drifted through the night air. Fisher forced himself to press forward. FP, on the other hand, was starting to veer off course, and Fisher had to reach over and grab his tail to keep him in line.

The bright lights of the restaurant receded behind them. The delicious food smells and the neon lights had been comforting. As Fisher left them behind, he felt like he was walking right out of the world and into a dark, cold place in the universe. He tried not to think that if the rescue mission went badly, he might never taste the spicy special sauce again.

After ten minutes, they saw the monolithic main complex of TechX labs looming ahead.

The main building was a massive, flat-topped pyramid, a dark gray concrete temple to technology. It was hundreds of feet tall, and illuminated by decorative floodlights. A logo spanning dozens of feet was emblazoned across the structure's front: a dark blue square with TechX in glaring white industrial font at its center.

Dr. X wanted his fortress visible at all times, as if to say,

Here I am. And you can't do anything about it
.
(So there.)

The first challenge would be the outer fence. This was a pretty simple obstacle, just a normal chain-link fence with some very discouraging-looking spikes jutting from its top. Fisher reached into his pocket and withdrew his Reversible Shears from the equipment belt of his spy suit. He'd used them once before, when backed into a corner of the athletic fields by the Vikings.

He clipped a small opening in the fence. FP slid through it first, and Fisher wriggled after him. Once on the other side, he pressed the
REVERSE
button on his shears. The blades flipped down and a small clamp flipped up. He applied this clamp to each cut in the fence, and it fused the metal back together perfectly.

Fisher crouched down in the brush, holding FP still with one arm. He was inside. There was no turning back now. His heart galloped in his chest, and he forced himself to breathe more slowly.

After the fence was a broad walkway, more grass, and then the main wall, twelve feet high and smooth as glass. Climbing wouldn't be an option. Fisher searched the walkway for guards. Seeing none, he picked up FP, and dashed across the walkway.

It was only when he felt a slight give under his foot that he realized he'd made his first mistake. There were pressure sensors underneath the walkway!

A quiet bleep sounded from the wall, and he heard automated systems chirping at one another. Fisher stifled a shout and looked around frantically for cover.

A small port opened in the wall several yards from the main gate, and a patrol-bot scooted out to investigate the tripped pressure sensor. Fisher dove toward the wall and dropped to the ground, pulling FP with him. Then he pushed a button on his shoulder straps, and a small tarp opened like a parachute and settled over himself and FP. This was one half of the camouflage capability his back-pack was equipped with.

The tarp's surface had spines colored and textured like grass, and automatically adjusted their color and height to match whatever grass it was next to—even the half-weed, half-dirt expanse that was the outfield of Wompalog's baseball diamond, as Fisher had thankfully discovered during gym class.

The robot stopped at the walkway and looked around. The bot's camera eye passed over Fisher, and kept going. The bot spent a few more minutes looking before giving up and going back through its small door.

Fisher let out a sigh of relief.

He pressed another button on his shoulder straps and the tarp retracted neatly. He slipped one of his sticky gloves on and pressed his hand against the wall. It slipped off like an ice cube on an air hockey table.

He frowned and looked for any sections of the wall that might be less slick. Nothing. There was no way to get a rope up the wall, either. Even if there was something on top of the wall to lasso a rope around—which there wasn't—the rope would almost definitely attract attention.

His eyes slid back to the little robot door. It was much too small for a grown spy, but Fisher could probably just squeeze through. He searched the ground and finally found a sizable stone. Then he and FP crept along the wall—being careful to stay at the very edge of the grass, where there would be no pressure sensors—until they were a few feet away from the little door.

Fisher tossed the stone onto the walkway, then quickly deployed the camo tarp. After a few seconds, the door opened and the security-bot rolled through it once again.

It buzzed its way to the path. While its back was turned, Fisher crawled through the door, with FP next to him, and the tarp concealing them both.

Fisher's heart was dancing the cha-cha in his throat. They were inside the main grounds now. Fisher pulled off the tarp and stared at the towering pyramid that rose in front of them. A pair of opaque windows was set near the top of the pyramid, and Fisher imagined that that was where Dr. X gazed upon the world he seemed to care so little about. Despite everything, and despite his anger at Dr. X, Fisher couldn't help but feel awed by the sight.

The pyramid was flanked by a pair of automatic guard towers. Fisher recognized the lenses on their sweeping cameras. Thermal. He and FP would have to get past without their heat being detected.

“Wasn't how I was planning to use this spy snack, boy,” he whispered to FP, “but I've got no choice.”

He withdrew a large bottle of orange soda from a pouch around his waist that had kept it barely above freezing, and shook it excessively. Then he laid the grass tarp in front of him and cracked the bottle, spraying it with the icy soft drink. Soon it was coated with soda and chilly to the touch.

“Come on. We have to hurry!”

The moving grass patch—now the moving icy-orange grass patch—made its way past the thermal cameras, stopping twice to let a security-bot roll by. Fisher and FP reached a hedgerow and crouched behind it. The single entrance to the building was now in sight.

Two human guards sat on a bench just outside of a large entrance. One was fat, the other scrawny. Neither seemed like a top choice for wanting to secure anything—and, in fact, the only reason they had not yet been fired by Dr. X is that he simply did not remember that they existed.

They never had anything to do. The occasional trespasser was almost always caught by the robots. And so they were drinking whiskey in the moonlight.

Each man had a flask in his hand, and they were in the middle of a heated discussion.

“King of Hollywood keeps their recipes locked up tight,” said the fat one.

“So I've heard!” said the scrawny one. “In some kinda special vault.”

Fisher looked around at the entrance they were “guarding,” and saw a promising-looking air vent a little way off to one side, just around a corner. He could get in quickly with his Screw Liquefier, but he would need a diversion.

And then, an idea came to him. He could barely suppress a smile.

“Think anyone will ever be able to crack that spicy sauce recipe?” said the fat one.