Popular Clone (20 page)

He tapped a control on his right wrist, and the guard's radio emitted a burst of static before going dead.

The guard fiddled with it for a few seconds before seizing Fisher's arm angrily. “All right, enough of your hocus-pocus. Move it.”

Fisher squirmed away from the guard's grasp, punching another button on his wrist. There was a faint hissing sound.

“Are you sure you're up for dragging me around? You look awfully tired.” A fine-mesh mask popped out of Fisher's shirt and snapped in place over his nose and mouth.

“What're you talking about, I'm not …” Suddenly, the guard's grip went limp and he collapsed to the floor.

Fisher, with some effort, pulled him back behind the cover of the camouflage wall. Then he cracked his knuckles.

“Your turn, Dr. X. Mess with one Fisher, you mess with all of us.”

And drawing up to his full four feet eleven inches, Fisher strode mightily and confidently down the corridor.

CHAPTER 20

Approximately 30 centiliters of New Drowse Vapor should render a 200-lb. man unconscious. This was proven conclusively by my dad, who thought that it was soup.

—Fisher Bas, Experimental Notes

At the very center of the complex was a narrow stairway that wound up to what must be the very top of the pyramid. As Fisher crept up the spiral staircase, he looked down at the heart-rate monitor on his wrist. He didn't like it when the number was
quite
that large.

At floor ten, Fisher stepped into a narrow, dark hallway, illuminated only by strange greenish light. A sign on the wall read,
CENTRAL CONTROL AHEAD. DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION, UNLESS YOU ENJOY BATHING WITH SHARKS.
Fisher kept his back pressed flat against the wall as he advanced down the hall, trying to keep his knees from locking up. He tried hard not to think about FP in his little disguise as a toolbox, and what might be happening to him.

Though his first impulse had been to chase after FP, freeing Two first was the wiser option. FP was still in disguise, and Fisher could only hope that he would be sitting, ignored on a shelf. As long as someone did not try to open him to get at a screwdriver, he should be fine.

Two, however, was in immediate danger. And Two would be able to help get FP back—despite the less-than-perfect relationship between the clone and pig.

The narrow corridor ended at a small balcony. He eased himself up to peek over the guardrail, which sat on top of an opaque glass barrier.

Below the balcony was a massive chamber, the ceiling high above Fisher's head. It was a roughly rectangular space with rounded corners, the walls sheathed in dark gray plastic. There were banks of controls all along the far wall, and dozens of workers busily monitoring everything going on in the huge complex. All wore impeccably clean, identical dark blue jumpsuits with the TechX logo emblazoned on the back.

In the center of it all was a dark figure. He was dressed all in black: a gleaming black jumpsuit, black gloves, black boots.

As he turned to survey the room, Fisher saw that he was also wearing a mask. It looked almost like an oldfashioned gas mask, but was made of black metal, with completely opaque glass over the eyes.

The masked man wasn't large, but there was something to the way he held himself—feet planted like pillars, arms confidently behind his back, head up straight—that gave the impression of a much bigger figure.

It was Dr. X. In the flesh. Assuming, that is, he actually
had
flesh. For all Fisher or anyone else knew, he might be a robot, too.

All of the frustration that Fisher had built up in years of being tormented by the Vikings was finally boiling over. Two's and FP's lives were in danger because of Dr. X's greed. Fisher had to put a stop to the power-crazed scientist. Fisher couldn't believe he'd once wanted to be just like him.

“I'm going to pluck that mask right off for what you did,” whispered Fisher under his breath. At that moment, Dr. X raised his head. He seemed to be looking straight at Fisher. Those dark spaces where eyes should have been sent a column of frost down Fisher's spine. He practically threw himself behind the barrier, trembling. His new-found courage had its limits.

“Status on whale tank three?” Dr. X's low, soft voice drifted up to him.

“Whales appear to be reacting to the music,” said a worker.

“I don't just need a reaction,” came Dr. X's voice again, this time sounding more threatening. “I want them to
dance.
Are they
dancing
?”

“Um … our marine behavior specialist is working on determining that, sir.”

“Good. Keep me informed.” Dr. X then moved farther away, and his voice got too faint for Fisher to hear.

After waiting a few minutes, Fisher eased himself into a crouch and took another peek. Dr. X's attention was still elsewhere, thankfully. Fisher scanned the wall of screens, searching for his clone.

But his attention was arrested by hundreds of images, showing the depth of Dr. X's operations, and the true purpose of his experiments.

The whale-dancing experiment wasn't about amusement or play. Fisher watched as a worker inside the whale tank controlled the whale's motions with sound piped into the water. The whale changed directions, flipped, and even breached on cue.

And on a different screen, Fisher saw a tankful of great white sharks, who were being trained the same way… .

Fisher shivered.

A different screen showed several of Dr. X's latest floor mopping models, and Dr. X strode across the room to survey them.

“How is model M-13A functioning?”

“Perfectly, sir,” one worker said. “They should be ready for mass production and marketing within a few months.”

Dr. X had introduced many automated devices to the public; his robots took care of things like cooking and cleaning, and people loved them for it.

“Excellent,” Dr. X replied. “Let's see it in omega mode.”

“Yes, sir.” The worker reached up to tap his headset and said a few words. A few seconds later, the mopper-bots stopped mopping the tile floor and began to buzz and shake. A few moments later they sprouted a variety of very unpleasant-looking weapons.

“Eliminate,” they began saying in metallic monotone. “Eliminate.”

Robotic assassins were being disguised as household cleaning devices. Fisher's mouth turned to chalk. There would be one in every home in America… .

The largest screen showed two large, metal plates bolted into the floor. As Fisher watched, a group of labcloaked workers stepped onto the left-most plate. A few seconds passed, then there was a bright flash.

Suddenly, they were standing on the
other
plate.

Fisher boggled. He remembered when Dr. X had teleported that car from one side of the city to the other. Dr. X had said at the time that the technology to successfully teleport a human was decades away, if it was possible at all. But there it was. Fisher's blood turned to slush when he realized what would happen next.

AGH. Teleportation. The ability to create armies from next to nothing, and to transport them anywhere in the world—instantly.

Dr. X would be able to conquer the world.

All the more reason to find Two and get
out
, before Dr. X realized he already had a workable sample of the AGH.

At the far side of the control room, a screen was switching feeds between different security cameras and stopped for a few seconds on a person in a small cell. Squinting, Fisher could just make out a mirror image of himself.

A guard was just removing Two's empty food tray—at least they weren't planning to starve him to death.

As Fisher turned his eyes from the screen, he saw the same guard walk into the main control room, carrying the tray. It had been only a few seconds. Two's cell must be right on the other side of the door at the far end of the control room.

Fisher fumbled through his equipment. He had just enough rope left to lower himself down from the balcony, even though it would mean descending into the pit of snakes. Or the pit of evil scientists, as the case would have it.

But he had no choice.

He fastened one end of the rope to the railing as securely as he could, grabbed hold of it with both hands, and slipped over the side.

Literally, that is—he slipped.

He was swinging his leg over the railing when he lost his balance. Tumbling toward the tiled floor below him, he frantically clutched at the rope. Flailing wildly, he managed to get the rope wrapped around his right arm and his left leg. He spun around and around, spiraling toward the control room floor. Just before he became a Fisher-puddle, the rope jerked and he came to a stop upside down, four feet from the floor. He clapped his left hand over his mouth to stifle his yelp of pain.

With his right arm and left leg still entangled in the rope, he spun, slowly, shaking his head to try and clear away the dizziness. As hard as he tried, he couldn't pull his limbs free. Each time he struggled, he spun himself one way or the other, moving in crazy, little circles and loops. If he were alone he would have considered waiting a half hour for the rope to dissolve, but the room was full of people. It was amazing that they hadn't noticed him already. He could only be thankful that their eyes were glued to the computer monitors.

He looked over and saw the room's attention held by one of the screens. Some kind of calculator-like device was being tested by a robot.

“How is the encouragement calculator progressing?” asked Dr. X. Now that Fisher was closer to him, there was something oddly familiar about his voice, although Fisher couldn't place it.

“Seems functional, sir,” said a worker. “We're about to run another test… .”

Something flashed on the calculator screen.

“Five … ,” the robot said in a tinny, emotionless voice, reading the question, “times two.” It reached down and tapped two numbers. “Thirteen.”

The calculator emitted a loud, harsh squawk, and a tiny boxing glove on a spring popped out and bonked the robot in the spot where a person's nose would be.

“Hmm … ,” Dr. X said. “Better than last time. Keep on it.”

This must be another one of the silly novelty inventions Dr. X was churning out by the dozens. And now Fisher understood why. They were a distraction. Little, amusing, bleeping gizmos to take everyone's attention away from what he was
really
doing.

Fisher was starting to panic. He was tied up like an antelope in the middle of a lion's den. If he could get to the pouch on the back of his belt, he might be able to reach his spy knife—which was a Swiss Army Knife, but painted black and with
Spy Knife
written on it.

He pulled at the ropes with his free hand, twisting his body and trying to use his entangled leg for leverage. His hand inched closer, grabbing hold of his backpack and tugging at one of the zippers. Close …

Then he felt something give way slightly beneath his hand, and heard a click.

“Oh n-
rrrghmp
!” was all he managed to get out as the trusty Shrub-in-a-Backpack deployed itself. The mechanical limbs shot out, the mesh camouflage wrapped itself around him, and the fake branches sprang into place, leaving Fisher completely wrapped up, more tangled than ever, and totally disoriented.

As he hung in his plant disguise, he heard quick foot steps approaching, and through the mesh was able to make out a guard.

“Uh … sir?” The man said, and then seemed to run out of words. He simply pointed.

“What is it?” said Dr. X in his distinctive low rasp. “I have very important work to … er …” His voice was cut off and another round of footsteps, extremely precise, echoed off the polished control room floor. “Why,” Dr. X demanded, “is there a shrub dangling thirty feet off the balcony?”

“Well, I think it adds a nice charm,” said another console worker. “A little greenery to break up the industrial monotony really does … um …” Dr. X had turned his dark, masked glare on her. “… that is, I … erp …” Her voice trailed off in a nervous gurgle, and she turned back to her console.