Replica

by Jack Heath

  Hitching Chloe’s backpack up, I turn to the school. The grey-brick structure has shuttered windows and thick walls tattooed with faded graffiti. It resembles a prison. Some kids would say it is one.

  Students flock towards it all around me. Soon I’ll be sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with them in a classroom. Close enough for them to hear my fake breaths and see the knots in my wig.

  My hands are semi-transparent in the sun’s rays. I can see the faint silhouette of my titanium skeleton. Will this body really fool anyone?

  ‘Hey Chloe,’ someone says.

  I turn around, but the girl is already moving on. It was a casual greeting, nothing more.

  ‘Morning, Chloe.’ Mrs Blatt, Chloe’s music teacher, smiles politely and keeps walking.

  When Chloe was a little girl, Kylie showed her magic tricks. She’d stuff a handkerchief into her fist and open her palm to show that it had vanished. It took four times for Chloe to see the flesh-coloured pouch taped to the back of her mother’s hand but, once she had, it was so bulky and pale that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed it before.

  My new body only looks fake because I know it is. The students and teachers assume I’m made of skin and fat and muscle and bone, so they don’t look closely enough to see the truth. I can walk amongst them safely …

  … until they have a reason to be suspicious. Then there will be no going back. Once Chloe saw the pouch, the trick never fooled her again.

  ~

  I know Chloe’s locker number and the code to open it, but not where it is. She didn’t annotate the map before uploading it to my hard drive. I’m not even sure if this is the right corridor.

  The lockers are arranged in ascending order, but that doesn’t help much. Many are open, others have students leaning against them, still others are decorated with so many stickers and drawings that it’s impossible to read the numbers. Searching for Chloe’s locker is like using a street address to find an unfamiliar house in the middle of the night.

  This is technically my first day of school, but I have to act like I’ve done this hundreds of times before. I can’t make it obvious that I have no idea where my locker is.

  ‘Chloe!’

  Suddenly I’m wrapped up in a bear hug, my face mummified in a girl’s curly hair. My plastic throat constricts in terror.

  Henrietta. Chloe met her in their first year at school, when the teachers picked them both to publicly welcome a member of the Olympic swimming team who had come to give a speech. ‘On behalf of Scullin Primary School,’ Henrietta had begun. ‘We’d like to thank you,’ Chloe had continued. And so on.

  After that, they joined forces on all school projects. Teachers started calling them ‘the twins’ A slow-witted boy once asked if they were real twins, even though Henrietta was taller and had darker skin than Chloe. They had both laughed and giggled and guffawed until they were sent to the principal’s office.

  She lets me go. Her forehead wrinkles with concern. ‘You OK, sweet pea?’

  Perhaps she can feel how cold my skin is. ‘Sure, Hen,’ I say. The name is both familiar and strange. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  Henrietta shrugs. ‘I don’t know. When you said goodbye yesterday, you seemed like you had something on your mind.’

  This observation makes her a better friend than Chloe ever was. Henrietta had been crippled by depression for months last year, not eating, not sleeping yet barely able to get out of bed. But she wore a big smile to school each day, and Chloe never noticed the emptiness behind it. When Henrietta recovered and told her the truth, Chloe thought she was joking.

  Yesterday, Chloe would have known that she wouldn’t see Henrietta in a while. But she didn’t know she was saying goodbye to her oldest friend for ever. Thinking about that makes me want to cry.

  ‘Not that I remember,’ I say. I’ll probably have to say that a lot. ‘Things are good. How are you?’

  ‘We’re not done talking about you yet.’ Henrietta raises a pierced eyebrow. ‘Your parents were out last night, right? You get up to anything fun?’

  I picture myself burying Chloe’s body. ‘Nothing even remotely fun,’ I say. ‘You?’

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘Pete came over.’

  Pete is the smug but charismatic captain of the school debating team. He’s also the main reason Henrietta joined it. Chloe liked him, but thought Henrietta would make a better captain than he would.

  I don’t really want to talk about Pete. I want to flee and hide in a toilet cubicle until school is over and everyone has gone home. But I have to act like Chloe would.

  ‘Reeeaally?’ I say. ‘I hope you two crazy kids behaved yourselves.’

  She sighs. ‘Unfortunately, yes. However …’ She elbows my titanium ribs. ‘I think he likes me.’

  ‘Duh,’ I say. ‘He’d be an idiot not to. The question is, is he worthy?’

  Henrietta doesn’t hesitate. ‘Yep.’

  I laugh. ‘Don’t say that! He has to prove his worthiness. Make him bring you a magic broomstick, like in The Wizard of Oz.’

  Henrietta opens her mouth to say something crude, but the bell rings.

  Chloe’s best friend doesn’t realize that I’m not her. So I take a small risk.

  ‘Hen, my dear,’ I say. ‘I’ve completely forgotten where my locker is. Would you care to escort me there?’

  She laughs, and links her arm through mine. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  ~

  ‘Quantum computing,’ Mr Fresner says, ‘is one of the fastest-growing fields in IT. Who wants to tell me why?’

  Silence. Some students don’t know, others don’t want to admit they do. Chloe uploaded her textbooks into my brain, so I’m pretty sure I know what he’s going to say. But I don’t want to be noticed.

  The classroom smells of formaldehyde and soap. The desks around the walls are fitted with taps that dispense flammable gas to power the Bunsen burners. Chloe heard a rumour that a student once duct-taped the mouth of a dead rat to one of the gas taps. They then inflated it until it burst, showering the room with rat gizzards.

  She never worked out whether or not the story was true.

  Fresner is a plump man in his late twenties, with prematurely grey whiskers and a habit of pacing while he talks. A faded strip scuffs the linoleum in front of his whiteboard. ‘Pete,’ he says, undaunted. ‘How about you?’

  Pete fiddles with a beaded bracelet, which looks like something Henrietta might have made for him. He’s a short boy with a mop of black curls and the beginnings of a goatee. He doesn’t seem to know the answer, but Chloe never heard him admit to that before.

  ‘Because they can be so much smaller than regular computers,’ he guesses. ‘Photons are smaller than transistors.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Fresner says. ‘But most of the current designs are about the same size and shape as ordinary processors. And some would argue that computers don’t need to be any smaller. You can already fit a pretty powerful one in your pocket. I’ll give you a hint—it’s something they can do that classical computers can’t.’

  ‘Run Modern Warfare 5 without lagging,’ says a boy from up the back.

  ‘Nice try. Next.’

  ‘They’re not affected by electromagnetic pulses,’ the same boy says, perhaps because no one laughed at his joke.

  Fresner pauses. ‘Do you know that for sure, or are you just guessing?’

  ‘Guessing,’ the boy confesses.

  ‘For those who don’t know, an electromagnetic pulse is what happens when you run a current through iron, or another magnetic substance. Any nearby computers will be wiped. It’s possible that a quantum computer might not be affected, but I’d have to look it up to be sure. Anyway, it’s not what I was thinking of.’

  Chloe didn’t think to warn me to stay away from magnets. I’ll have to add them to the list of things which could expose or kill me.

  ‘They can multi-task,’ says the bespectacled girl next to me. ‘If you asked a quantum computer to factorize a num
ber, it could try every combination at once instead of going one at a time.’

  ‘Indeed it could. Instead of just using zeros and ones, a quantum computer uses qubits, which are both a zero and a one at the same time until they are measured. So why would that be useful?’

  Henrietta is sitting on the other side of me. She puts up her hand. Her rings sparkle in the light from the window.

  ‘Henrietta,’ Fresner says.

  ‘Code cracking?’ she asks.

  ‘Correct! Where a classical computer might take a thousand years to find a decryption algorithm using trial and error, a quantum computer can try every possibility at once and have the answer in seconds.’ He turns to the whiteboard, and writes the word Cryptography on it.

  I scratch Chloe’s notebook with the lid of my pen. Flipping through it told me that the Soviet Union invaded Finland in 1939, that helium is the lightest of the noble gases, and that, in a group of twenty-three people, there is a fifty per cent chance that two or more will share a birthday. It seemed to tell me everything except what I really wanted to know: who was following her, and why?

  Her locker held no clues. There was a box of tissues, some photos of her and some friends abseiling down Booroomba Rocks, an invitation to Pete’s birthday party which she’d thought was too intricate to throw away afterwards, and a folded note which said, ‘Surprise!’ and bore a lipstick kiss. Henrietta was fond of slipping quirky letters into Chloe’s locker.

  ‘Scientists rarely study things just because they’re useful,’ Fresner is saying. ‘More often, they’re researched because they’re dangerous. Chloe.’

  Everyone turns to look at me. Panic spirals outwards from my chest.

  ‘Yes?’ I say.

  ‘Can you think of any reason why a working quantum computer might be dangerous?’

  ‘The world banking network relies on traditional encryption,’ I say, quoting the textbook. ‘Using a quantum computer, someone could steal trillions of dollars.’

  ‘Well done.’ Fresner turns to the rest of the class, who suddenly look more interested. ‘In the wrong hands, this technology could create a worldwide economic meltdown which would make the great depression look like a hiccup. This is why countries and companies are racing each other—whoever develops a working quantum computer first will probably also be the first to work out how to protect themselves from such an attack.’

  A girl stares at me from the opposite side of the classroom. Her satin black hair is pulled back by a sweatband, revealing a face sprinkled with freckles. Beneath her pointed nose, her thin lips are set in a hard line.

  Wondering what she can see that everyone else can’t, I make eye contact with her and smile politely. She doesn’t smile back. If anything, she seems to glare for a moment before looking away. Perhaps she’s jealous of my textbook knowledge.

  I don’t recognize her, which means she’s not one of Chloe’s online friends. But something about her face is mesmerizing. Looking at her makes me feel anxious.

  I start writing down bits and pieces of what Fresner is saying. Cryptography. Bits/qubits. Algorithm.

  Having memorized the textbook, there’s not much educational value in what he’s saying. The pen seems to move by itself, searching for a more mysterious topic.

  Reasons: knowledge, it writes. Secrets.

  If Chloe had information that someone else needed, that would explain why she was being followed. But she didn’t know she had it—otherwise there would be no mystery about the stalking.

  She might have passed the knowledge on to me. I just need to figure out why it’s important.

  My pen scribbles one more word. Silence.

  What if the stalkers already know the secret? It could be their job to make sure it doesn’t get out. Perhaps they planned to kill Chloe all along?

  But they don’t know they’ve done it already. So they might kill me for something I don’t even know that I know.

  My heart is pounding in my chest. Knowing that it’s an illusion, that there is nothing but a battery and a two-litre tank in there, doesn’t help.

  ‘Something wrong, gorgeous?’ Henrietta whispers.

  I force a smile. ‘No, nothing.’

  Yet.

  TIGHTROPE

  Science feels like it takes all morning, but actually it’s only fifty minutes before I’m out. Band rehearsal is next. According to the map in my head, it’s on the other side of the campus.

  As the last students tumble out of the biology classroom, I grab Henrietta by the elbow.

  ‘Ow!’ she says. ‘Watch it, Hercules. I need that arm.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, releasing her. I point to the satin-haired girl who glared at me. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Who’s who?’

  ‘Her. With the sweatband and the freckles.’

  ‘That’s Becky.’

  We both look away as Becky turns towards us. I can’t tell if she saw me pointing.

  ‘Is she new?’ I ask.

  ‘No, you ditz. She’s been in our class all this year— although she took a month off when her brother got sick. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just don’t remember seeing her before, that’s all.’

  ‘Wow. What’s it like on your planet?’

  Be Chloe, I tell myself. ‘Come visit some time,’ I say. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Henrietta laughs. ‘I have to get to Italian. I’ll catch you at recess.’

  ‘Ciao,’ I say.

  ‘Beg your pardon?’ she says, looking confused.

  ‘It’s Italian. It means …’ Then I realize she’s kidding. ‘Get out of here.’

  She smirks. ‘See you.’

  Henrietta walks one way, and I walk the other, trying to match the speed of the students around me. Shoulders and hips bump against me as I squeeze through the gaps in the crowd.

  It’s hard not to feel like everybody is staring at me, no matter how many times I glance around to check. Personal space doesn’t exist here. Surely it’s only a matter of time before someone touches my skin and recognizes it as silicone.

  Then again, I’ve made it this far.

  My music teacher, Mrs Blatt, overtakes me. The grey shawl, the thick glasses, and the suspicious expression on her face make her look a hundred years old, but if she took them off she would probably be revealed as a thirty something. The students move aside uneasily as she passes. I fall into step behind her, the way a gridlocked taxi follows an ambulance.

  I’m almost at the band room when an eerie clicking fills the air. It sounds like the noise that earphones make when a text message is sent nearby.

  A moment later, I’m horrified to realize that the sound is coming from my own throat.

  I clamp my mouth shut and slap my palms over it, trying to muffle the sound. The amplifier in my throat must be malfunctioning. I have to get out of here before someone hears it.

  But it’s fading, like the ticking of a dog’s claws as it trots away down a tiled corridor.

  ‘Are you OK?’ someone says. A younger boy, with braces like train tracks across his teeth. No one else takes notice of my strange behaviour.

  I let go of my mouth. Will that happen every time someone sends a message near me? Surely not. Henrietta was texting in class, right next to me, and my voice was fine then.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say. ‘I just thought I was going to throw up.’

  The boy gapes at me. ‘Are you pregnant?’

  ‘Who’s pregnant?’ someone else says.

  ‘Her.’

  ‘Chloe’s pregnant?’ a third voice says.

  Everyone’s looking at me now.

  ‘I’m not pregnant,’ I say, glaring at them all. I’m just … I …’

  Hunching over, I pretend to gag, as though I’m about to vomit on the growing crowd of bystanders. They all scamper backwards, giving me room to push through.

  So much for blending in. As I flee, I wonder how many more ways my body can betray me.

  ~

  The ceiling fan in the band room s
erves only two functions: to throw off our harmonies with a creaking, groaning sound, and to blow our own hot air back down at us.

  ‘Come in, sit down,’ Mrs Blatt says as the students shuffle in. ‘Tomorrow’s the last day of term, and we still have a lot to get through.’ She points her baton at the pianist like a wizard casting a spell. ‘Tuning note, please!’

  The pianist prods a key. A low B flat rings out across the room. Those who have assembled their instruments join in, fiddling with valves and slides to get the pitch right. The rest weave through the chairs and stands towards their seats.

  I’m already sitting, sheet music in front of me, Chloe’s clarinet in my hand. My hands are trembling again.

  When Chloe wore the motion-capture pads so as I’d know how to move, did she play the clarinet? When I try to play, will my fingers know where to go?

  Most of the instruments are tuned. Evidently deciding that this is good enough, Mrs Blatt taps the baton on her stand and waits for silence. A stern look hastens the process.

  ‘Get out Himalayan Tribute,’ she says.

  A few students hiss, ‘Yes!’ Others groan.

  I reach for the music, but the clarinettist next to me—a skinny girl with hair that always seems to be over her eyes—is already pulling out the relevant sheet of paper. She’s not one of Chloe’s online friends, but she’s been tagged in their photographs, so I know her name: Fiona.

  I scan the top line of the music. The first few notes are D, G flat, B, A. I can still read music, at least. But can I play it?

  Mrs Blatt raises the baton. I put the instrument to my lips, and hold my fingers over what I think are the appropriate valves. Everyone in the room holds their breath.

  Mrs Blatt brings the baton down again and sound erupts all around the room. The cymbals crash, the saxophones honk, the flutes trill like birds.

  But no noise comes out of my clarinet at all.

  Panicking, I blow harder, but nothing happens. The instrument may as well be a lead pipe.

  The tune keeps going for another five bars before Mrs Blatt stops the orchestra with a wave of her hand. ‘Dynamics, trumpets,’ she says. ‘There’s supposed to be a big diminuendo there.’