Popular Clone (9 page)

“I'm gonna go change, then watch some TV,” Two said. “I'll do it downstairs so I don't disturb your work.” As he headed out the door, he paused, leaning his head back in. “By the way,” he said, pointing to the petri dish where the mosquito engineering was taking place, “there should be another TCCAG sequence at the end of your third artificial RNA strand.” He followed this remark with a wink—
a wink—
and closed the door behind him.

Fisher sat in his room, dumbstruck. Who
was
this kid? And where did this swagger come from?

What was going on?

An hour later, Fisher sat staring at the dining room wall, slowly lifting forkfuls of chicken and vegetable stir-fry from his plate and down to FP. The pig was sitting on his lap and happily snapping up each bite. His mind was still whirling, and his parents' conversation, which he picked up in bits and pieces, sounded echoey and distant. Two was hiding upstairs. Fisher had promised to smuggle up his dinner when he was done.

“I just can't believe what they're up to this time,” said his dad in a fretful tone.

“You mean the plans to expand the King of Hollywood into an arcade complex?” asked his mom.

“Exactly. It's going to take up thousands of square feet more, and that could …”

Fisher's mind drifted. Two had borrowed a video game
from a friend
. The closest thing to a friend Fisher had ever had was Mr. Granger, and he risked a heart attack every time he played Go Fish.

“… and the lesser pink-mottled ganglebird has never been closer to extinction than it is now!” came his father's voice again.

“That's unfortunate… . How exactly do these birds ‘gangle'?” asked his mother, sounding puzzled.

“Well, you see …”

That meant that Two had made
a new
friend. Even
normal
people didn't make friends close enough to borrow from after a single
day
!

There was only one explanation: Fisher must have done something wrong. Maybe he'd been too hasty in his cloning process. Maybe he'd missed an essential part of the formula. Or maybe the problem was in the hormone itself! It was still in early stages of development. That must be it.

“Mom?” Fisher asked.

She turned to face him, blinking, as she tried to sink her teeth into a zucchini the size of a baseball bat, gnawing it like an ear of corn. “Mmmph?”

Fisher tickled FP behind the ears, to avoid making eye contact. “Oh, I was just curious about your work on the AGH. Have you noticed any strange … um, effects?”

“Don't be silly, Fisher. We're still in a developmental phase. There hasn't been any kind of testing yet, so we have no way of knowing its effects. And, Fisher,” she went on, “while your father and I encourage your scientific curiosity, I need to make very clear to you just how delicate and sensitive my work is. You can't go around talking about AGH, not to anyone, you understand?”

Fisher nodded, trying to stop his mouth from twitching.

“A lot of people would be interested in getting a hold of it,” his mom went on, her brow wrinkling with worry, “and there's no telling what lengths they'll go to. Criminals, foreign governments, biotech corporations … if they found out just what I'm working on, they might try to hurt me to get it. Or your father. Or even you.”

Little sweat beads rolled down the back of Fisher's neck, leaving icy trails.

“Speaking of which,” she said, turning to Fisher's father, “a brick in the perimeter wall was out of place today. I think someone might've been trying to bypass security.”

“You check the wall, brick by brick?” Fisher's dad asked.

“I am
not
letting anyone get their hands on this formula,” she said, bringing her fist down on the table for emphasis. “No one. Anyone who tries is going to have to answer to me.”

The table's arm popped out and removed her plate, mistaking the impact of her hand for an order. She quickly tapped it again to get her dinner back.

Fisher spent the rest of the dinner in anxious silence.

Later that evening, Two crawled into his little makeshift sleeping space as Fisher climbed into bed. The plate that Fisher had snuck up with dinner for Two sat on the floor, and FP contentedly lapped up the little bits left over.

“Ready for tomorrow?” Fisher asked.

“If it's as easy tomorrow as it was today, I'll have no problems,” Two answered as he rolled onto his back. Almost immediately, he was asleep.

As Fisher closed his eyes and tried to block out the sounds of Two's snoring, it occurred to him, for the first time, that maybe this hadn't been such a great idea after all. The fact that he had proved that the AGH worked would make it even more valuable—and his family even more of a target—if the truth ever came out.

One thing was clear: no one could
ever
find out about Two.

CHAPTER 8

Every experiment has unforeseen complications. Keeping a good ten feet between yourself and the experiment is a good idea, too. It doesn't matter what you're working with; things have a tendency to explode.

Fisher was woken up by the sound of his two-day-old twin going through the closet. He blinked the blurriness away and had to stifle a laugh when he saw what Two was wearing. He had on an old T-shirt, full of holes and fraying at all edges, which his mother used as a hand cloth for cleaning the furniture. It had been his dad's years ago, with a now completely worn-down and unreadable rock band logo.

Fisher was about to ask him about his choice of outfit when a sharp citrus aroma hit his nose. It was the scent of Spot-Rite. Two must have been wearing the shirt so that he had a reminder of his “mother” in his nostrils at all times.

He was also wearing an old, short-brimmed gray fedora that Fisher had inherited from his grandfather. It was still in pretty good condition, though the peak was starting to lose its shape. Two looked in the mirror and cocked the hat slightly to the side, so it almost hid his right eye. Then he noticed that he was being watched and turned to Fisher.

“How do I look?” he asked, spreading his arm wide.

“Like you tripped, fell through a thrift store, and landed in a bucket of floor polish,” said Fisher, trying to make the remark sound as pleasant as possible.

“Cool,” Two said. Fisher winced.

Two shouldered his backpack, a much more stylish replacement for the one that Fisher had left in the cafeteria. When Fisher had asked where he'd gotten it, Two had replied simply, “Traded it for a favor.” He had given Fisher no other details.

“See you in the afternoon,” Two said with a wink. And out the door he went, a wake of lemony-fresh scent trailing through the air behind him.

Fisher pulled himself out of bed, stretching his arms. In the morning, with the sunshine streaming in, his concerns about Two seemed silly. No one would find out. How could they?

Another day of glorious freedom spread before him. He sat down at his worktable. He was still tinkering with the genetic structure of the attack-squitoes, helped in part by Two's suggestion. He carefully stuck his arm through the seal into the tank. When he pulled it back out, it was only lightly bitten.

Hmmm. Could Two be even smarter than the original?

Fisher pushed aside a twinge of envy. He would
not
be jealous of his own clone.

At lunchtime, Fisher realized the only food he had left in his room was a half-squashed chocolate bar and some stale Doritos. His stomach grumbled.

He would have to risk a trip to the kitchen.

Fisher crept into the hall. Getting downstairs was relatively easy—the night-light was always sleeping during the day. He tiptoed down the hall toward the kitchen. This would be dangerous.

Fisher took a quick look inside to check and see that the appliances weren't on alert. The oven was intelligent, but when it was cold it had sluggish senses and a terrible memory. The dinner table was technically intelligent— but, thankfully, it couldn't see. And Fisher knew that the fridge spent much of its time pouring off wine into its own box, and was generally out of it.

As long as he didn't bump anything, he would be fine.

Carefully, slowly, he extended a single foot onto the pale linoleum, hoping it wouldn't squeak.

He froze when a faint blubbering noise came from just a few feet away.

His eyes darted to one side of the counter. Lord Burn-side!

For a second, Fisher considered darting away. Then he realized the toaster was asleep. A faint, cheerful snoring sound emanated from its wire baskets, which rose and fell in a rhythmic fashion.

Fisher sucked in a deep breath and took slow, careful steps into the kitchen. To his relief, the snoring continued. Unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to open the fridge without waking it up. He tiptoed toward the pantry, hoping to scrounge up something decent.

“Oh my!” came a high-pitched exclamation from the toaster.

Fisher jumped a foot in the air, landing unsteadily. He was about to sputter excuses when Lord Burnside went on. “Lady Wheaton-Rye, however did you get up the narrow staircase to my chambers in those petticoats? And is this visit entirely proper?”

Fisher stifled a laugh. Lord Burnside was dreaming! His dad loved to tinker with the AI programming his mom had originally installed. Apparently, the latest update actually allowed the toaster to dream.

Fisher reached into the pantry, grabbed the first edible thing he found, and bolted back to his room.

But just as he sat down to enjoy a pack of granola bars, the house alarm began to wail.

“Intruder alert!” the house blared. “Intruder alert!”

Fisher was so surprised he toppled backward out of his chair. Someone was trying to break into the house! Forgetting all about staying quiet, he made a dash for the nearest security console, which was in his parents' bedroom.

“Intruder al—!”

Before he could reach the security console, the alarm abruptly went silent. Fisher tapped at the console frantically, trying to figure out why it was no longer working. The alarm should still be blaring, automatically notifying his parents at their jobs, but it wasn't.

Fortunately, the cameras were still working. Fisher tapped and swiped at the screen, and brought up the front yard on the monitor. His heart was hammering.

Two dark-clothed, masked figures were making their way across the front yard. They'd gotten past the outer wall, and Fisher realized they must have managed to disable the alarm system. The house's automatic defenses should have been running in response, but nothing was activating.

Fisher looked at the array of controls in front of him. His heart was jackhammering inside of his chest. He couldn't call his parents, and reactivating the security system would take more time than he had. The intruders would reach the door in less than a minute even at their creeping pace.

Fisher took off at a run back to his room, where he began tearing through his closet, looking for anything to help him fight off the intruders. FP circled Fisher's ankles, squealing nervously.

He plucked a small pouch out of a cardboard box full of in-progress inventions. “This won't stop them,” he said to himself, “but it might slow them down and buy me some time.”

He raced down the stairs just as scratching sounds emanated from beyond the front door. They were picking the lock! Fisher opened up the pouch and removed what looked like an ordinary clump of dirt. He tossed it into the foyer, then raced to the hall bathroom. After soaking a towel in water, he returned to the front hall.

“I was hoping to test you under more controlled conditions,” Fisher muttered as he squeezed and wrung the towel out onto the dirt clump, “but this'll have to do.”

Fisher jumped back as the clump started to move and pulse, making scratching, snapping noises. Wooden spines shot up into the air, splitting off into branches, and these sprouted full, richly green leaves. Roots crawled out along the floor and gripped the walls for support. Within moments a fully grown shrub decorated the Bas entranceway. His shrub-hiding incident by the bus had reminded him of this old project of his dad's. Insta-Growth was intended for use to quickly repopulate flora in deforested spots. Fisher had been hoping to modify it for hiding purposes. This prototype was decent, although the presence of enormous, thick thorns on its branches made it impractical to stand in.

Fisher gave the creation an approving nod before racing back up to his room. He heard the dead bolt click back and the door swing open behind him, followed by the surprised shouts of the thieves as they came face-to-face with the most bizarre interior-decorating choice they had ever seen.

“What's
this
doin' here?” said a gruff male voice.

“Doesn't matter. Get out the special shears the doc gave us. We'll get through it in no time,” answered a smoother voice.

Fisher backed out of the front hall and into the kitchen, frantically trying to hatch a defensive plan. Every snap of a twig made him jolt like a live wire. He tried to keep his hands steady as he ducked beneath the half wall separating the dining area from the kitchen, to keep the fridge from seeing him.

All that he could find was a stack of small plates sitting on the table. The men he was up against weren't about to get slowed down by a bunch of flying dishware.

Was this it? Was he fated to meet his end cowering under a dinner table?

The dinner table.

Suddenly, Fisher knew what to do. Gathering an armful of plates, he hunkered down behind the table and waited.

A final crack, and what was left of the shrub toppled over, revealing the two thieves, clad in black and wearing full face masks.

“All right, let's go!” said the smooth-voiced one. “We're looking for the laboratory.”

“I thought I heard something over this way,” said the other.

“Okay, okay. We'll check it out. But let's make it fast.”

They strode purposefully in Fisher's direction.

Fisher took aim and hurled a plate. It sailed past the leader's face by over a foot … which was exactly Fisher's intention.

As the thief turned to see where the plate had come from, there was a loud
clank!
One of the table's automatic arms shot out to catch the airborne dinnerware … and smacked the intruder right on his forehead, knocking him onto the ground.

“What the … ?” he started to say, clutching his head, and staggering to his feet.

As the second thief started forward, another plate whizzed past his head, and a second wooden arm shot out from the table and floored him.

“The table!” he shrieked. “The table's attacking us!”

Fisher took a deep breath and ramped up the barrage. As the thieves got to their feet again, dizzy and dazed, Fisher sent a flurry of plates in their direction. The table arms grabbed each one, battering the two men relentlessly. At last, they lay in a heap on the floor, one clutching his arm, the other grabbing his sides. Fisher stayed low behind the table, keeping out of sight.

“I think I mighta broke a rib,” said the gruff one, holding his side.

“I ain't gettin' paid enough for this,” the other one replied, cradling his elbow. “That doc guy didn't say nothin' about a fightin' table. Let's split.”

The thieves picked themselves up and limped out of the house, one angrily slamming the door behind them. Fisher collapsed backward on the tile floor, as the table arms retracted neatly. The hall was filled with shattered plates, and he had no idea how he would explain that to his parents, but the important thing was this: the intruders were gone.

“Nicely done, Woody,” Fisher murmured to the table, reaching up to pat it on the side. The table flapped its leaves once.

When his breathing had slowed, Fisher climbed to his feet, rebooted the security systems, and swept the hall clean of shattered porcelain. He decided it was best
not
to let his parents know about this little incident. There's no way he'd be able to explain why he was home when the attempted break-in happened. Really, his parents should be thankful! If it hadn't been for Fisher's incredible foresight in cloning himself (and sending that clone to school in his place), the Bas home might be under siege. Working quickly, Fisher deleted the security logs from the past hour and replaced them with normal status reports. Someday he'd tell them about the break-in. Maybe.

Later that afternoon, Fisher was working hard on his latest project: a device that would give him remote access to the house's security system. By altering one of his old calculator watches into a mobile command station, he would theoretically be able to control the security system from anywhere in the house. This would allow him to move through the house undetected and help him be ready in case of another intrusion.

He was so absorbed that he hadn't even noticed that Two was back from school until he heard water running in the bathroom and the jazzy sounds of cheerful humming: Two was singing the Spot-Rite commercial jingle over and over under his breath. Fisher couldn't help but feel a twinge of irritation. Two couldn't even
pee
without having fun.