Replication

by Jill Williamson

  “No.” He set the postcards on the floor in front of his plate and took another sip of Gatorade.

  She grabbed an Oreo and popped it whole into her mouth, then remembered how black they made her teeth. She was such an idiot. She dumped a few cookies on Marty’s plate then pushed the bag across the room where she couldn’t reach it.

  Marty picked up a cookie and bit into it. His face scrunched up, like eating new foods was a serious job requiring deep thought and concentration and he might have to give a detailed report on it. Suddenly he grinned, his teeth caked in chocolate. “I like cookies.”

  Abby laughed. She watched him eat until all the food was gone. He leaned back against her bed and pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. It was eerie how much he looked like JD, with the exception of the lack of hair. His demeanor was completely different, though. Hesitant. Nervous. His eyes were always observing, collecting information. And the sound of his own voice didn’t seem to thrill him like it did JD.

  She took in his clothes for the first time. He wore gray sweatpants and a white lab coat over a white T-shirt. His feet were bare and pink.

  Abby brushed the back of her knuckles over the top of one foot. “Your feet are freezing!”

  He jolted at her touch and scrambled to the side.

  “I’m sorry.” She crawled over to her dresser and opened her sock drawer. She had a pair of men’s socks in there somewhere. Dad had loaned them to her once when he took her skiing at Liberty Mountain Resort.

  That had been a joke. She hoped Alaska’s jagged peaks would not inspire Dad to try again.

  She spotted the cream-colored socks with the wide red band and pulled them out. “Here.” She tossed them to Marty, who eyed them curiously. Was he kidding? “Don’t tell me you don’t know what socks are?”

  “I’ve never …”

  She scooted up to him and took the socks back. She scrunched her fingers up inside one and held it out. “Give me your foot.”

  He extended one leg. “The doctors wear socks, inside their shoes. We’re not allowed shoes.”

  Wild, dark hairs stood out on his pale ankle. Apparently he could grow hair just fine. Abby stretched the sock over his toes and past his heel, leaving the long sock bunched around his ankle. “Does someone shave your head?”

  He nodded, but kept his eyes glued to his foot. “J:3s have grooming every Thursday morning. They shave our heads and faces and clip our fingernails and toenails. That’s when we also get bandages if we’re hurt.”

  Abby readied the second sock, and he offered his foot without her having to ask. “Once a week? For Band-Aids?”

  “They don’t always discover our injuries right away, and we don’t like to say.”

  “Why not?” You’d think the scientists wouldn’t want the clones bleeding to death.

  “Because we get marks for fighting.”

  Marks? As Abby pulled the other sock on, she noticed a silver ring poking out from the cuff on his pant leg. She pushed up his pant leg and drew the ring out. “What’s this?”

  “A stinger.”

  Abby’s felt her breath snag. She leaned closer to study the crude device. “How does it work?”

  “The people watching through the cameras make it sting.”

  A remote-controlled taser? “When?”

  “When we get out of control.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  He shook his head. “No one likes to be stung.”

  Abby swallowed back a sarcastic remark and patted his shin. “All done.”

  “Thank you.” He pulled his knees back up to his chest and wiggled his toes. “They are soft and warm … and red.” He stroked the red band on his right leg.

  Her mind raced with questions. “What’s a mark?”

  “A consequence for misbehavior. One mark is one hour with a doctor in their lab room.”

  “What happens in the lab?”

  “Different things. It depends on the doctor. Some—like your father—are kind and just want to talk. But most test how our bodies react to different vials.”

  Abby trembled at his words. “They do pharmaceutical testing on you?”

  “That’s right.” Marty had apparently heard the word pharmaceutical from the doctors before.

  It ticked Abby off to hear her dad was involved in this Farm business. That he knew human clones existed and was party to using them as guinea pigs … She exhaled through her nose to calm herself and chewed her thumbnail. She should be thankful Dad was one of the kind, talking doctors at least. “You had a mark with my dad? What did he ask you?”

  “Much of what you are asking.”

  “I still don’t understand why they told you the world is toxic. Maybe to keep you from trying to escape. Why did you escape?”

  “I wanted to see the sky before I expired.”

  Abby’s heart broke at the desperation in his voice. Right. He’d said something about that. His one dream in the world was to see the sky and the outlaw scientists wouldn’t let him? Insanity.

  “Do you think they also lied about expiring?” Marty’s gaze was filled with so many things: hope, desperation, confusion, fear. “That maybe I won’t expire on April twenty-eight?”

  She grimaced. Expiring. Beyond disturbing. But why would they kill their own clones? “I don’t know, Marty. We should ask my dad.”

  Marty hung his head. “Will he make me go back?”

  She threw up her hands. “I don’t know. I won’t tell him yet. I need to think about this a little more.” If Marty weren’t a carbon copy of JD, her skepticism would be greater. But she knew JD’s gene pool. The guy couldn’t act. Marty’s behavior, the things he said, the way he said them … no one could pretend that. Not even for a very sick and twisted joke.

  Marty was real.

  Abby went into her closet and pulled out her purple sleeping bag with the fuchsia lining. She had used it for her trip to Philly, then for the first night in the house until she could unpack her bedding. She rolled it out along the wall across from her bed and checked to make sure the door was locked. “Sorry. This is all I have, but it’s warm.”

  Marty didn’t seem to know or care that purple and fuchsia were girly colors that no guy his age would be caught dead sleeping in. She gave him one of the pillows off her bed, explained how to wiggle inside the sleeping bag, then zipped him up. Once he was settled she rolled up the bag of Doritos and set them on the floor next to the Oreos.

  She needed to go brush her teeth, but she didn’t dare leave his side. Not yet.

  “What are the names of these colors?” Marty asked, looking at the sleeping bag.

  “Purple and pink—hot pink.”

  “The floor is also purple and pink hot pink?”

  She snickered. “No. The outside of the sleeping bag is purple, like my comforter. The floor and walls are lavender, which is a lighter shade of purple. Purple is my favorite color.”

  “Red is my favorite color.”

  She smiled at their pre-school-level conversation. “The inside of the sleeping bag is hot pink, which is a very bright shade of pink.”

  “Sleeping bag.”

  Abby crawled under her comforter and watched Marty. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before turning to face her. His eyes were unnerving. They were as dark and insatiable as JD’s, yet Marty’s presence didn’t threaten. He was everything good about JD—and unique. Sweet and innocent and nice to talk to. A clone.

  A thought popped into her head that both amused and shamed her.

  Can I keep him?

  She clicked off the light next to her bed. “Good-night, Marty.”

  “Yes, it is, Daughter Abby. A very good night. Thank you.”

  [CHAPTER ELEVEN]

  WHEN MARTYR WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, Daughter Abby was gone and the door to her cell hung open. He sat up, and the sleeping bag sat up with him. He wiggled free from the stifling fabric and stood, wondering what to do. The sky was still dark, and Daughter Abby had not told him what
to do when he woke up. The only thing he knew was he did not want to go back to the Farm. Will Baby worry when I don’t show up for breakfast?

  Martyr inched out the door. The facility was dark, but light glowed from the lower level. He stopped at the wooden railing and peeked over the ledge. Noises clunked and water sloshed somewhere below, but he saw no one. He wanted to call out to Daughter Abby and see if she was the one making the noise. He simply wasn’t ready to meet Dr. Goyer yet.

  A sudden odor met his nose. Someone was cooking food on level one.

  Then he saw her. Daughter Abby passed under the ledge into the room with long, soft chairs and the high ceiling. She touched a long, flat monitor with her finger and walked back under the ledge, out of view. The monitor suddenly glowed bright and a voice spoke from it. Martyr crouched to the floor and peered between the bars.

  “… mushers may push on this afternoon, preferring to take their twenty-four in Cripple. Live from Ophir, I’m Lisa Haberton.”

  “Thank you, Lisa,” a man said. “And speaking of Cripple, nobody was more surprised than Kenai musher Roxi McAlpine to have won the Dorothy Page Halfway Award, which comes with three thousand dollars in gold nuggets. McAlpine, who was first into Cripple this morning, was excited about the accomplishment.”

  “I had no idea I was even in the lead,” a high-pitched voice said. “That snowstorm threw me off a bit. I thought I’d overshot the trail. I was thinking about backtracking when I caught sight of it. Sure feels good to know I’m still in this thing. I’m real proud of my team.”

  Martyr crept along the bars until he reached the stairs. The floor was covered in the same thick fibers as Daughter Abby’s floor, but instead of the purple shade, this was the color of pancakes. He liked the feel of it under his feet.

  He sat on the top step and scooted over the ledge to the next one, holding on to the bars while keeping his eyes focused toward the talking monitor. It appeared to be speaking of huge dogs pulling people over the snow on pieces of wood. Martyr had only seen a few pictures of dogs years ago, and now the white, fluffy one Daughter Abby kept in her room. He hadn’t known dogs could be so big. He also hadn’t known people who lived outside used dogs for transportation. Martyr supposed it would keep them from having to walk on the cold snow, but wouldn’t a car be faster?

  Martyr slid down the stairs one at a time until he reached the bottom. Then, keeping his back to the wall, he edged slowly toward the kitchen. Daughter Abby darted around behind a tall counter covered in shiny, white tile. A billowing cloud of steam rose above her head. It smelled delicious. She had fastened her wild hair on top of her head and it poked up in a strange bubble. It was her dark red sweater, however, that made Martyr’s heart race.

  He stopped at the end of the wall and hovered, trying to decide what to do. He swallowed and took three long steps to stand in front of the counter. It was taller than the ones in the labs and came up to his stomach.

  He faced Daughter Abby’s back. She cracked an egg in a pan over a blue flame and tossed the shell into a trash can. Then she stirred something Martyr couldn’t see that was cooking in another pan. He sniffed in a long breath and immediately wanted to eat what she had created.

  She turned slowly and jumped when she saw him. “Oh! You scared me!” She clapped her hand against her chest. Then she motioned him to a tall, round chair beside the counter. “Sit down. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She grinned. “You’re so polite. You’d put all the boys at school to shame.” She turned back to the pan, filled a plate, and set it before him. Everything looked different. Instead of yellow eggs in a pile, these were smooth and white except for a round circle of yellow in the center. Some kind of brown meat shaped like large pills were also on the plate. The toast was rectangular instead of square, and Daughter Abby had cut it diagonally to form two triangles. There were also wedges of bright, wet fruit.

  She set another plate next to his before coming around the counter to sit beside him. His heart pounded as he smelled her fragrance over the food. He couldn’t describe her smell. He blinked, trying to focus, but found it was impossible next to her.

  “I usually pray before I eat. Would you like to pray with me?”

  He craned his neck to look into her green eyes. They were so many more colors of green than plain peas. Dr. Goyer’s picture had not been a good representation.

  She stared at him, waiting.

  His cheeks warmed. She’d asked him something that he didn’t understand again. “Yes,” he said, hoping his answer would be the right one, that she wouldn’t think him ignorant.

  She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Dear God, I thank you for this beautiful morning and this meal you’ve provided. Thank you for bringing Marty here and for creating him and letting me meet him. Show me how to help him, no matter what that might mean. Please keep him safe. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

  Martyr cocked his head to the side, more confused than ever by her words. He glanced around the facility, but saw no one else. Who was she talking to?

  She picked up a shiny metal fork and cut open her egg. The yellow circle bled over the tender white of the eggs. Martyr gasped and turned to his own plate. Would his eggs bleed too?

  He picked up his fork and stabbed the circle, causing the dark liquid to ooze out of the small puncture holes. He glanced at Daughter Abby. She dipped her toast into the liquid. Martyr picked up his toast but did not eat.

  “Who is God?”

  Daughter Abby hummed and chewed. She held up a finger until she swallowed. “Uh, well, God is … um … He’s the creator … of everything.”

  “Does he work at the Farm?”

  She giggled. “Yes, but not how you mean. God isn’t a person like you or me or my dad, he’s a deity … wh-which is a … um … I’m not so good at explaining him, I guess. Basically, he made life, the earth, and everything in it. He made people and animals and trees and—”

  “And you speak to him here, where he is not”—Martyr looked around the facility again to be certain they were alone—”and he hears you?”

  “God hears every prayer. He knows everything that happens, even your thoughts.”

  “How can he know my thoughts?”

  “Because he’s omniscient.”

  “What is—?”

  “It means he has unlimited knowledge and understanding.”

  “But how can he—?”

  “Because he’s God.”

  “You’re certain he made me?”

  Daughter Abby frowned and took a bite of her toast. Martyr watched her chew and swallow before she spoke again. “I don’t know, Marty. I’ve always believed it was wrong to clo—” She cleared her throat. “Not that I’m positive you’re a clone.”

  “I am a clone. The doctors say it sometimes. I’m not sure what it means.”

  She set her fork down and dropped her face into her hands. “Of course they didn’t explain anything.” Her voice was muffled. “Clones are … well, they’re copies of people who already exist. And it’s wrong to clone people. It’s like playing God, but humans can’t create things as well as he can. We mess stuff up, even with the best intentions.” She lifted her face to look at him. “Didn’t you say there were … Brokens?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many Brokens, Marty?”

  “Uh … officially four, but probably half of us have serious conditions. And the doctors call them Brokens too.”

  “Half?” Her eyes glistened and her eyelashes fluttered. “What kind of broken?”

  “Well, Baby is small, though he has a large head. He doesn’t speak with words, and he sucks his thumb. But he’s smart, unlike Hummer, who only hums and rocks and drools all the time. Also, Hummer’s face is a little crooked and his eyes are extra large. Several have misshapen appendages, like arms, a foot, or fingers or toes. Fido likes to pick on the Brokens, especially since many of them can’t run or fight back.” Martyr paused and remembered the little boy in the box. “One
J:9 or 10 didn’t grow legs. They keep him in a glass box in Section One. He moans all the time, like Hummer, but I think he’s in pain where Hummer is not. He is one of the four.”

  A tear ran down Daughter Abby’s cheek. Martyr reached up and brushed it away with the backs of his fingers. He did not mean to make her sad.

  “Marty, doctors in a lab can’t give you a purpose—only God can do that. I know he has a plan for you, for your life. Maybe escaping was part of his plan. Maybe you and I can rescue the others.”

  Rescue. As if their life at the Farm had been wrong in some way. As if they had been prisoners. The sudden realization turned his stomach. He was a copy. They all were. Copies of a real person. And the doctors had lied to them. Used them. Could they get away? Could they each have a new purpose? Could all the Jasons have a life like Daughter Abby’s? “I would like the purpose of freeing the others. How can I find out if this is God’s purpose for me?”

  “Oh.” This time she scowled like she was thinking very hard. Suddenly she gasped and grabbed his wrist. “I know! I’ll take you to meet Kylee’s brother. He’s a youth pastor, so he’ll know what to do … I think. But first, Marty, I’ve got to go to school, which means you’ll have to stay here alone while I’m gone. You must stay inside the house. Don’t answer the door or the phone. If you hear someone coming, go back up to my room and hide in the closet. I made you another sandwich for lunch. It’s in the fridge.” She pointed at a large rectangular box with two white doors. “Eat anything you want. Just make sure the doors to the fridge close when you’re done or all the cold air will get out. The TV is on—I’ll show you how to change the channels.” She took his hand, led him to the picture monitor, and explained how to use a tiny device with buttons that made this TV change to different scenes.

  “I’ll be back at about three twenty-five.” She pointed to a wooden clock taller than he was. “Can you tell time?”

  He nodded.

  She walked over by the door, opened a closet, and put on a puffy black coat. She removed the binding from her hair and pulled a black hat over her head, making her curly hair poof out around the edges of the hat. She stepped into a pair of black boots filled with white fur, then came to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and squeezed.