Popular Clone, page 5
Most kids seek out beds, couches, and other soft surfaces in times of distress, but Fisher was most at home among the buzz of miniature generators and the burble of simmering chemical solutions. When Fisher was an infant, his father had carried him in one arm while working experiments with the other, and the sounds and smells of the lab were deeply comforting to him.
He settled down between two stacks of data-storing servers. Running against one whole wall was a large glass enclosure full of animals. There were a few cats, a handful of birds, and five sheep. Not five different sheep, but five copies of the same sheep.
The animals were all clones. His father was working on perfecting a cloning mechanism that allowed clones to be created from the smallest bits of genetic material. The five sheep had all been grown from a single strand of shaggy wool.
As Fisher watched them trotting around the enclosure, he heard the familiar snuffling and light hoof steps of his small, blunt-snouted pet.
“Hey, FP,” Fisher said. His pet curled up on Fisher’s lap, pressing his flat nose into Fisher’s leg and snuffling contentedly. “Man, it’s good to see you. You know what I think? I think humans are overrated.”
FP let out a snort that Fisher took for agreement. “Maybe I should just clone myself a bunch of pets. They’d keep me company and wouldn’t throw me into trash cans or make me barf up my lunch.”
He smiled, then looked down at the little animal in his lap. “What do you think? Would you like to play with another flying pig?”
FP squeaked and blinked rapidly at Fisher, which made Fisher laugh.
“Don’t worry, FP. I don’t think I could handle another pet just like you—how would I scratch you both at the same time? And how would I keep track of which FP was the real FP? It’s be too weird.” He shook his head. “You’d feel weird, too, if you walked into the room and there were suddenly two of me.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Fisher froze. “Two of me …” Fisher looked again at the duplicate animals in the tank. And in the reflective glass, he saw his own reflection—the crazy hair, the bony shoulders, the three prominent freckles on his nose. “Two of me … two of me … That’s it, FP! Two of me!”
Fisher leapt to his feet, sending FP sprawling with an outraged squeak.
“My flat-nosed friend, I am going to make another me. He can go to school and be beat up and tormented, while you and I hunker down here, and ride out middle school in safety. I’ll reconsider going back when I get to ninth grade or so. In the meanwhile, I’ll have a substitute student. A scholastic stunt double!”
Supplies Needed for Operation H.I.M.R.W.C.G.T.S.
(hide in my room while clone goes to school)
Cheetos
Doritos Cheez-its
gummy worms
gummy bears
M&M’s
Starburst
The pig cocked his head slightly in response to all of this, twitching his nose with a look of utter incomprehension.
All of a sudden, Fisher was flooded with energy. With hope.
“Come on, FP,” he said. “We’ve got work to do.”
FP trotted along behind Fisher as he strode out of the lab.
CHAPTER 6
Like attracts like. Ergo: the best companion a boy can have is his own clone.
—Fisher Bas, Scientific Principles and Observations of the Natural World (unpublished)
Fisher stepped into his mother’s chemical storage locker. It was the size of a large walk-in closet and completely lined with shelves. Fluorescent lights clicked on, one by one, filling the space with a bluish glow and illuminating rows of sealed bottles, flasks, test tubes, copper wire, and centrifuges, as well as three dozen cans of McGinty’s Old-Fashioned Cherry Fizz Soda. His mom was addicted to the stuff and always needed it when she was working.
Fisher walked the rows until he found a clear canister with a titanium latch on its seal labeled, AGH-X3, and below that, UNTESTED.
Below that were the words: EXTREMELY VOLATILE. VERY DANGEROUS. DO NOT TOUCH.
And then, in tiny letters: THAT MEANS YOU, FISHER.
Fisher gulped. His mother had been working on the project for over a year. If he destroyed her work, and was caught stealing from her—stealing dangerous and highly experimental chemicals, no less—something terrible would happen. Maybe he’d be the test subject for his mother’s next project—developing an effective angry-squirrel repellant. Fisher thought about being dropped into a vat of squirrels. He twitched reflexively. He definitely couldn’t take much of the hormone without her knowing—certainly not as much as he needed—but if he could siphon off just a tiny bit and take it to his own lab to study, he might be able to re-create it himself.
The canister was on a high shelf and Fisher didn’t have a ladder. He considered trying to balance on FP but decided the pig would never stand still for long enough.
Fisher raised himself up onto his very tiptoes and eased his hands around the container as quickly as he dared. He wiggled the canister off the shelf … a little farther … and a little farther, and then …
The slick canister slipped right through his fingers.
Icy panic shot up Fisher’s back. For a moment, time seemed to stop. The canister pinwheeled, plummeting to the ground. His eyes followed the path of the falling canister, helplessly, until it struck the hard steel floor.
And bounced.
Fisher exhaled. Of course! It was plastic. His mom was far too smart to keep an important chemical in a container made of glass.
Fisher slipped a sealable test tube out of his sock—he always had one there, just in case—connected it to the small built-in port on the canister’s seal, and eased out a bit of the advanced AGH. He quickly replaced the canister, made sure that he had not disturbed anything else in the room, and slipped out again.
The first part of Mission: Fisher Bas Number Two had been a success. Fisher allowed himself a small smile. Not even space hero (and scoundrel) Vic Daring could have done it better.
An hour later, FP lay on the floor, slowly chomping his way through a green apple, as Fisher began the process of re-creating the Accelerated Growth Hormone in his room. He had put on his white lab coat, custom-tailored to his small frame, and his gloves and goggles. A variety of laboratory supplies and materials mingled with boxes of cookies and bags of barbecue-flavored potato chips on his lab table. He had three days to make this experiment a success.
Fisher cracked his knuckles and began his work.
Clone Log. Friday, 7:00 p.m. The first stage of the process will be to establish a proper balance of the AGH, cellular tissue, and other substances to begin rapid cell division. Also, to keep a small, hungry pig with the power of flight away from my snacks. Constant vigilance will be required!
Clone Log. Friday, 7:40 p.m. Am leaving chemicals to stew while joining parents at dinner table. Have a cover story prepared in the event of fire, explosion, or fiery explosion.
Clone Log. Friday, 8:25 p.m. Have been experimenting with different chemical combinations. Have not as yet found the correct quantities. Now taking necessary pause for recalibration. And Babylon 5 reruns.
Clone Log. Friday, 11:46 p.m. Balance may be properly achieved with a rapid jet of oxygen to help set the process in motion. However, volatility of oxygen is causing some possible flammability issues. Small flames causing setbacks. Hope Mom won’t notice the smoke damage. Also: running low on ginger ale.
Clone Log. Saturday, 12:13 a.m. After many oxygen-jet trials, am increasing to higher levels in a more rapid jet, which according to calculations should set things into motion quickly without undue risk. I think this is going to work.
Clone Log. Saturday, 12:14 a.m. Note to self: in future, make sure that the last words you use before combining volatile substances are not “I think this is going to work.” Side note: AGH is very effective at stimulating the regrowth of eyebrows.
Clone Log. Saturday, 8:15 a.m. Slept for roughly 3.2 hours. Am now—
“Good morning, Fisher! You’re up early today.” Fisher leapt up from his keyboard, his eyes sliding rapidly over the collection of petri dishes and test tubes on his worktable before landing on his mother. She was holding a test tube, which sent a thin blue mist into the air, and she wore a sophisticated eyepiece over her right eye.
Fisher pushed away from his worktable, casually brushing a key that made his log blink off the screen.
“Hi, Mom!” he said, plastering a broad, innocent grin across his face. “How did you sleep?”
She frowned slightly, and set down her test tube on Fisher’s lab station. He tensed as she walked toward him. He forced himself to keep smiling.
“Fisher, I can see through that idiotic grin on your face, so you might as well drop the act. Don’t think I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Fisher’s heart began thumping in his throat. It felt like he had swallowed a bullfrog. Had she checked the levels of AGH in storage to the centiliter and noticed the missing quantity?
Fisher’s heart stopped, and he began to stutter frantically. “I … I … er …”
She put a hand on his shoulder.
“When your dad and I were in school, we were just like you,” she went on, her expression softening. “And there were bullies and social orders then, just like there are now. But that doesn’t mean it’s okay to be skipping classes and coming home from school early. Don’t give me that look— Lord Burnside told us everything. I promise you, I truly promise you, that these things will get better as you and the other kids get older. And I want you to know that you can always talk to us about it. Okay?”
The reassuring look she gave him was somewhat less effective with one of her eyes completely concealed behind an elaborate system of lenses and lights, which made her look like the world’s most technologically sophisticated housefly.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said. Of course she didn’t know about the AGH. How could she? “I think I’ll be all right. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to get back to work. Helps me keep my mind off things.”
“Of course, Fisher,” she replied, straightening up. “I’ve got plenty of my own work to get to. Dad said he’d fix lunch at one, okay? Let’s hope he and the oven don’t get into it again. I think it’s been charring the meat on purpose—it’s still upset about what your father said about the broiler.” Fisher nodded sympathetically as his mom backed out of the room and closed the door. He breathed an enormous sigh of relief.
Then he was back to work.
Clone Log. Saturday, 10:00 a.m. Trying a new combination of the AGH and other chemicals. Confident this new combination will not result in fire.
Clone Log. Saturday, 10:10 a.m. Confirmed, new combination skipped the fire stage and went directly to smoke. Previously untested laboratory venting system working very well.
Clone Log. Saturday, 2:00 p.m. After time taken off from experiment to brainstorm and perform new calculations, have decided that formula needs more external stimulation for process to begin. Stand by.
Clone Log. Saturday, 2:15 p.m. Preparing to apply stimulating electrical feed, after rerouting certain laboratory wires. Stand by for upda—
The screen went black in the middle of his log entry. The lights followed. With all of his blinds closed, the room was plunged into darkness. Fisher heard FP’s hooves clicking as the pig jumped in surprise, then let out a squeak of fear.
Fisher felt around for his battery-powered emergency light. Finding it, he flipped the switch. The light beamed on—directly into his eyes. Blinded, he stumbled backward just as FP crossed his path. He pitched over backward and lay in a heap for a few minutes.
“I guess I’m lucky I’m short. I don’t have very far to fall.” He sighed. FP walked over to him and started prodding him with his nose. “And I’d have to rely on your snout-based first-aid skills.”
Fisher pulled himself to his feet, walked to his door, and slid open a wall panel. Ever since his mom had caused a short circuit that set the living room couch on fire, each room in the Bas house had been connected to its own circuit breaker. Fisher switched the circuit breaker off, then on again, bringing his lights, equipment, and computer humming back to life.
The power’s return made FP jump again, and this time he took off, landing squarely on Fisher’s head.
“Mmmn grrrnf,” Fisher said, reaching up to peel the terrified FP from his forehead. “Relax, boy. This isn’t that bad. Remember when Mom made that robo-teapot, and it was running around the house dousing everything with scalding-hot Earl Grey? That was scary.” FP shuddered a little bit, and Fisher put him down. “Now let’s get back to work.”
Clone Log. Saturday, 2:36 p.m. After a brief electrical setback, attempting to stimulate again at reduced voltage.
Clone Log. Saturday, 3:40 p.m. Apparently, I made a calculating error. I have produced not a human body but a large, cushion-shaped mat of hair. The pig is finding that it does, in fact, make an effective cushion.
Clone Log. Saturday, 5:00 p.m. Further unsuccessful attempts to begin cell division have produced results including a single large tooth, a circular object made entirely of biceps, and finally a one-fifth-scale skeleton. Unfortunately, an action figure is not the desired product of this experiment. Must sleep now. Still have two days to go. I’m not giving up yet …
Fisher collapsed onto his bed and was asleep almost instantly.
He dreamed of an army of Fishers, completely identical, faces blank, marching in lockstep along a road. The sound of hundreds of Fisher feet striking the pavement seemed to make the world jump and dance like a chimpanzee on a trampoline.
Then the dreams switched, and he was watching as his clone grew in the lab, just like it was supposed to— except the clone didn’t stop. The new Fisher kept getting bigger and bigger, knocking shelves over, splintering and crashing through the ceiling, and the whole house began to collapse… .
Fisher jolted upright, breathing heavily. He was covered in a cold sweat. He looked at the clock. It was almost 4 A.M. He rubbed his eyes, shaking the remains of the dream out of his head as his heart gradually slowed back to normal.
As frightening as it had been, the last dream had given him an idea… .
He pulled his chair up to his desk, slapped down a few dozen sheets of white paper, and began frantically scribbling down new formulas and notes.
Clone Log. Sunday, 4:00 a.m. Have recalculated entire experiment—proportions of AGH need to be LARGER. Must sleep again so that I can make an appearance at breakfast, otherwise certain parties may become suspicious of my activities.
Clone Log. Sunday, 11:00 a.m. I believe I have finally achieved the proper balance of elements and can begin the growth process. Stand by for updates.
Clone Log. Sunday, 3:00 p.m. Growth process underway. Partial skeleton has formed in the isolation tube. FP is confused. I should probably eat something before the process of watching myself be grown in a vat causes appetite loss.
Clone Log. Sunday, 8:00 p.m. Nervous system and blood vessels mostly in place. Organs are now forming. I am considering the philosophical implications and scientific importance of viewing a replica of myself slowly developing in a plastic vat. It is … weird.
Clone Log. Sunday, 8:01 p.m. Note to self: research vocabulary more appropriate for expressing philosophical implications.
Clone Log. Monday, 1:00 a.m. Organs continuing to grow at rapid rate, muscles starting to grow. Trying not to look at clone too much. The presence of excess fried-potato consumables in stomach may cause difficulties with over-observation.
Clone Log. Monday, 2:00 a.m. Skin beginning to grow over now fully formed muscles and organs. This experience may or may not be extremely philosophical.
Clone Log. Monday, 10:00 a.m. Subject is fully formed. Will now attempt to awaken. If clone turns into rampaging creature and takes my life, I bequeath all of my laboratory equipment to my parents, and my mint condition Issue #1 of Vic Daring, Space Scoundrel to Harold Granger, Wompalog Middle School. My snacks I leave to FP, although he probably won’t wait for the will to be read.
Fisher looked the boy in the oversize tube up and down, studying him. Proportions were all correct, bone structure seemed perfect, his muscles (or lack of them) appeared to be properly formed. His limbs pressed up against the glass. The tube had once been used by his father to incubate giant squid eggs. Fisher hoped he had cleaned the tube sufficiently before beginning the experiment; he would hate to think that his clone was part-squid.
Fisher had to build up his courage for a minute before he could bring himself to more closely examine the clone’s face. His face.
Or almost exactly his face; Fisher had three freckles on his own nose, while the clone had only two. But surely nobody would notice a difference so slight.
It was time to bring the clone out of stasis. Its organs were being held in suspension at low temperature while direct nutrient and oxygen flow kept them alive. In the final step, Fisher would give the clone the jolt it would need to truly live, like the Frankenstein monster coming to life with a bolt of lightning.
Fisher really hoped that his clone would not turn out to be like the Frankenstein monster.
“This is a glorious way to begin your existence, eh, Fisher-2? In a dark, little room full of equipment and empty potato-chip bags? Too bad the only witnesses to your birth are a sleep-deprived seventh grader and a winged pork chop.” He adjusted various knobs and dials in preparation for the final step of the process. “But I’ve got quite a future in store for you. In theory, if middle school is the first environment you’re exposed to, you won’t realize how horrible it is. To you, it’ll just be how the world works. Hey, you might even like it.”
With that, he initiated the sequence.
The IV carrying nutrients and oxygen to Fisher-2 abruptly withdrew, and the tank began to warm up. Two metal probes whirred into place, one at the clone’s chest, the other below his stomach. While the tank was instantly flooded with oxygen, the probes shocked his heart, which gave its first beat.
The clone’s lungs contracted, then expanded. The clone took its first breath.
