by M. E. Castle
Kevin Keels! Really?! Fisher fumed. His music was cheesier than a map of Wisconsin cut from a four-cheese pizza. And how could an accomplished English student like Veronica get so—blushy—over someone who had a hit single titled “Not Never Wouldn’t Leave You”?
He had just stepped into the hall and had started toward his next class when he was seized by a hand on his left shoulder.
As Fisher found himself spun roughly around, he fumbled into his back pocket, preparing to defend himself with his Instant Nose Froster.
Then he saw Amanda Cantrell’s angry face and stopped mid-draw. The tiny plastic device was knocked from his hand. As it collided with a bank of lockers, the Nose Froster let out a fine plume of white spray, turning a passing sixth grader’s nasal passages into a miniature model of a glacier formation.
The girl let out something between a scream and a honk, her arms flailing as she ran toward the nearest bathroom.
“Amanda!” he cried out in surprise, choking a bit as she pinned him against the locker. “Is, uh … something wrong?”
“Something is very wrong,” she said, her dark hair whipping around her face like deadly vines. She freed one hand to adjust the black-rimmed glasses that her ambush had jostled out of place. The other arm was more than enough to keep Fisher pinned. Amanda was short, but she was strong. She was head of the debate team and captain of the wrestling team. “And you’re going to tell me what.”
“What—what are you talking about?” stuttered Fisher. Little beads of sweat rolled down the back of his neck.
“When you started acting weird a few weeks ago, I was confused, but I figured you had finally evolved from a sea slug into some kind of vertebrate.” Apparently, Fisher’s new fame hadn’t made people forget about his father’s Bas-Hermaphrodite-Sea-Slug Hypothesis. Fisher tried to wriggle away from her grasp, but there was no escape. He was at Amanda’s mercy. “Then you crawled out of TechX completely unhurt, even though the whole place blew sky-high moments earlier—”
“Look, Amanda, if we could maybe—”
“After you came back to school, you were right-handed, even though you’d been left-handed the week before. And you have a third freckle on your nose that I know wasn’t there before.”
Fisher’s eyes darted around the hallway, willing someone to help him. But the few people left in the hall were busy at their own lockers or shot a terrified glance at Amanda before scurrying away. He’d never had help when the Vikings bullied him. He wasn’t going to get it now that Amanda practically had him in a headlock.
“You understand how these events conflict, don’t you? Did you think no one would notice?” Her steely eyes bore into Fisher. He could practically feel a little burning spot on his forehead. His knees were beginning to twitch.
“L-listen,” he said, struggling frantically for excuses, “I know a lot of weird things have happened, but I don’t know what you’re—ow!” Her fingers dug into his left shoulder as she fished a smart phone out of her pocket. She held the screen inches from his face.
“Shut up and watch,” she said, and with a few rapid flicks of her fingers, pulled up a video on her phone.
The screen faded up on a simple setup: a small room with blank walls and floor, and a chair in the middle.
A chair in which Fisher was sitting.
Only it wasn’t Fisher. It was Two. Showing his face—Fisher’s face!—on camera.
“We here at Spot-Rite have been getting your spots right out for over ten years now,” Two was saying chirpily. It was an audition tape for a commercial. “And as long as there are spots to get out, we will continue to provide the best cleaning product available.” Two went on to talk about the newest Spot-Rite product—a cleaner that was nontoxic and edible, so parents wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning a counter with it and contaminating their food. He then had a three-person discussion about the product, with two sock puppets dressed as kittens. The puppets began to dance in the air to prerecorded music as Two sang a jingle.
But the real kicker was when a third puppet—this one, a dog—came into the shot. Was Two operating a sock puppet with each hand and a foot? The clone’s talents and abilities were matched only by the insanity of the things he chose to use them for.
Fisher’s eyes skated frantically to the stats posted below the video. For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out. The video had already gotten ten thousand views in three days. The first comment was: awwww so CUTE. the cats aren’t bad either loling.
“See the time stamp in the bottom left corner?” Amanda said. Fisher just managed to nod. “This video was filmed three days ago, at eight fifty in the morning. When you were sitting in Ms. Snapper’s class right in front of me.”
“You don’t understand—I mean, I don’t understand—I mean, there’s an explanation—” He wished he could argue logically, but he knew he sounded like he was having a panic attack with a duck call in his mouth.
“Save it, Fisher.” She shook him once, hard. “I want the truth and nothing but the truth.”
“Okay, okay.” He held up both hands in surrender. He knew that Amanda and Two had become close when the clone had been in school. Ever since Fisher had crawled from the ruins of TechX, Amanda had been watching him like a hawk, observing the way he acted and spoke. She looked like she was keeping a catalogue of every move he made in her hard drive of a brain. He couldn’t keep the truth from her, but maybe he could keep her from spreading it. “I’ll tell you the truth, but can we go somewhere else?”
Amanda let Fisher go and pointed to the same supply closet Brody had threatened him with. Forcing images of the janitor’s mop bucket from his mind, Fisher nodded reluctantly.
“In,” she said. Fisher checked to make sure the hall was clear, and they slipped into the closet.
“Okay,” Amanda said, even more intimidating in the dim, harsh light of the closet’s tiny, uncovered lightbulb. “Who was sitting in class the day that video was filmed?”
“Fisher,” Fisher said, a tiny squeak popping up into his throat. He swallowed. “Me.”
“And who made that video?”
“Fisher … Two.” Fisher clenched his eyes closed and gritted his teeth. Finally. He had said it. The secret was out.
“Fisher, I just said you couldn’t have done both,” Amanda replied, leaning closer threateningly.
“No, no,” he said, “not too like also. Two. The number two.”
Amanda stared at him for a moment.
“There’s more than one of you,” she said, completely deadpan.
“Two, to be exact,” Fisher said, “and that’s what I call him. Two. I … made him. In my bedroom.” Amanda raised an eyebrow so high, it threatened to zip off her forehead and embed itself in the ceiling. Fisher sighed and, stuttering, told her the whole story of Two’s life: his mother’s Accelerated Growth Hormone, growing Two in a tank in his room, and the events leading up to the destruction of TechX Enterprises. He also told her about how Two had seen a Spot-Rite commercial on television the moment he “woke up” and become obsessed with the idea that the actress in it was his mother. The only thing he carefully left out was the fact that Dr. X had used an android looking exactly like Amanda to lure Two in.
He’d lied to Two to keep him under control. He’d told him that they were on a covert mission to rescue their mother and that the middle school was a training ground for the evil organization that they were fighting against. Fisher didn’t know how much of it Two really still believed after what they went through at TechX (he was, after all, as brilliant as Fisher), but if he was auditioning to be the new face of Spot-Rite, there was a pretty good chance he still believed the Spot-Rite actress was his mother.
When he’d finally let everything out, he actually felt kind of relieved, like he’d been carrying a sack of rocks everywhere he went and he’d just thrown a few of them away.
“Listen to me,” Fisher said. “This can’t get out. I was almost killed trying to keep Two’s existence a secret. I
didn’t even know he escaped TechX until a few days ago, but he could be in serious danger if anyone else finds him. I need you to promise you’ll tell no one. If Two’s in LA, I have a chance to get to him before he blows this secret wide open.”
Amanda leaned in very close and looked Fisher straight in the eyes. Fisher would have backed away, but he was already pressed up against the shelves of toilet paper and the weird powder janitors use when kids puke in the hallway. For a second, he thought Amanda might head-butt him. He gulped.
“Hmm.” Amanda backed away and held out her hand. She seemed to have made her decision. Fisher breathed a sigh of relief and shook it, trying not to wince at the strength of her grip.
“If it was anyone else but you, I wouldn’t believe it. But I think you’re telling the truth,” Amanda said. “If your secret is putting Two … and you,” she added grudgingly, “in danger, I’ll help you get him back. On one condition.”
“… Okay,” Fisher said, feeling a pulse of anxiety. He was glad to have the help, but he couldn’t imagine what Amanda’s condition would be. His thoughts flew wildly through possibilities. Would she blackmail him into paying her a secret-keeping fee for the rest of his life? Would she make him do all of her science homework forever? Would she want him to create an Amanda Two?
“Convince him to be my date for the fall formal.”
Fisher was momentarily speechless.
“You want to take him to a dance?” he finally choked out. “That’s your condition? Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”
“Don’t get any ideas,” she snapped quickly. “I don’t like him or anything like that. But it’s one of the biggest events of the year and he’s the only boy around that I could put up with for an entire evening.”
“But, but … I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to convince him,” Fisher said. “I can’t tell him what to do. Besides, I was going to ask Veronica to the formal. And I already explained that both Fishers can’t go to the dance.”
“I gave you my condition,” Amanda said. “What you do about it is your problem.” With that, she took him by the elbow, spun him around, and pushed him out of the closet.
CHAPTER 3
Plan A rarely works. Save time, and start with Plan C.
—Vic Daring (Issue #218)
Fisher arrived home still trembling. He couldn’t believe that his deepest, darkest secret was no longer his alone. He felt a slight tingle as he walked through the Liquid Door of the front gate, passing through it as if it were mist. Someone with DNA the house didn’t recognize would bounce off it like they’d hit a brick wall.
As terrifying as the confrontation with Amanda had been, he still felt a sense of relief. It had felt good to tell the truth. And Amanda had volunteered to help. He had a chance to find Two again. He could set everything right.
He walked between clusters of volleyball-size grapes clinging to vines as wide as Fisher’s entire body. The latest addition to his mother’s experimental garden was faring well. A French vineyard had signed a contract with Mrs. Bas, since just two of her grapes would yield a full bottle of wine. Plus, they provided a place for his father’s newest batch of landlobsters to live and play.
As Fisher pushed open the door, he stopped and sighed. His father was in the foyer, hopping on one foot trying to untangle his suspenders from his left ankle. His mother’s head was bent sideways because one dangly earring had gotten caught in her necklace chain.
His parents could alter genetic structures with their eyes closed. They could design ovens that could discuss geopolitics while broiling chicken. But they could barely dress themselves in normal clothing, much less act like normal human beings.
“Hey, there, Fisher,” his dad said, between hops.
“Welcome home, sweetie,” his mom said. The way her head was twisted made her look like a confused bird.
“Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad,” Fisher said with a sigh. “Big night out?”
“We’re going to the symphony,” his dad said, freeing himself from his own suspenders only to hook his cufflinks together. He walked toward Fisher with his wrists bound together. “Could you give me a hand, Fisher?”
“Sure,” Fisher said, reaching up and trying to figure out how his father had managed to handcuff himself with only a pair of fancy buttons. He looked up at his dad’s disheveled mop. “Your hair looks a little, um …” He gestured with his hands, since what he really wanted to say was, Your hair looks like an iguana’s nest after a hurricane.
“Yes,” his dad replied, trying to help free his hands. “I was trying to apply my hair gel but FP jumped up and ate it.”
“What?!” Fisher said. “Is he okay?”
“Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe to eat—though I can’t imagine it tastes very good. He’ll be fine.”
“Well, okay,” Fisher said, “I guess if …” His eyes drifted up past his father’s head. “Um, are you sure he’ll be okay?”
“It’s completely nontoxic,” his dad said, finally freeing his wrists. “Why?”
“Because he appears to be glued to the ceiling.” Fisher pointed.
The family pet, and Fisher’s best friend, was named Flying Pig, usually called FP. Fisher’s mother had engineered the little fellow, a small pig with flaps under his forelegs that served as wings. He couldn’t really fly, but he was a pretty talented glider.
One thing he was not, however, was self-adhesive. Yet there he was, stuck to the ceiling like a twitchy pink mushroom.
“FP!” Mrs. Bas exclaimed, looking around for something to get him down with.
“You okay, boy?” Fisher called up to him. FP made a few squeaks. He sounded more annoyed than pained.
“Oh dear,” Mr. Bas said, scratching his head. “I should have guessed. The gel is made of adaptive materials. Its strength adjusts to its environment. FP’s body must be cranking the gel all the way up and sweating it out.”
Fisher found a long-handled broom and with a great effort managed to pry FP from the ceiling. FP squealed as he flailed his legs, trying to slow his descent to the floor. He hit with a thud—and his backside immediately attached itself to the linoleum. But at least he was on the floor.
Mr. Bas shook his head. “Well, this is a pickle. If the gel is in his system, he could be sweating it out for days. He’ll stick to anything he touches.”
Fisher sighed and poked at FP until his hooves were on the floor. His whole body was glistening with the powerful gel.
“I guess I’ll try and work up an antidote,” Fisher said, dropping his backpack on the floor and pulling out a folder. “Before you go, could one of you sign this permission slip? My science class is taking a field trip this weekend to LA.”
His mother, still halfway out of one shoe, hopped over and took the slip from Fisher.
“Oh!” she said, reading it over. “You’re going to a taping of Strange Science?” She bit her lower lip absently. Then she said with false casualness, “I think I’ll volunteer for one of the chaperone spots. Because, that is …” She thought for a moment. “Well, LA is a big place, after all, and it can be dangerous. I should insist on accompanying you.”
“Hmph,” Fisher’s dad replied. “You just want to get a chance to meet that Dr. Devilish. He’s nothing but a phony with a silly goatee and a too-tight lab coat. I bet he couldn’t reverse engineer an electron spectrometer if he had the instructions tattooed on his big, manly hands. He’s not a real scientist. Or even a real actor! He just smiles at the camera, and everybody loves it. If you’re going to see a show produced, you should see Sci-Fi: Survivor!”
“Sci-fi what?” Fisher’s mom asked. She was blushing, and Fisher noticed she had not tried to deny that she wanted to see Dr. Devilish.
“A new show. It’s premiering next week. A group of people are put in a maze full of challenges based on different sci-fi genres, and they have to figure out clever ways to get past them. Now that’s a show where people really have to use their heads! Critical thinking, problem solving under p
ressure …”
“Oh, that show,” his mom said disdainfully. “It’s only getting hype because it comes on right before Strange Science,” his mom fired back. “So Fisher, about that—”
“Er, sorry,” Fisher said quickly. “All the chaperone spots are taken.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Bas said, clearly crestfallen. “Well, I’m sure it’ll be a rewarding experience.”
There was a brief moment of awkward silence. Fisher’s mom finally managed to free her earring.
“So,” Fisher said, attempting to change the subject, “what’s the occasion, anyway? You almost never have nights out.”
His parents looked at each other, and his mother let out a long sigh.
“I wasn’t going to tell you right away, because I didn’t want you to worry about me,” she said. “But … due to setbacks and security risks, my AGH project has been shut down. I was ordered to hand over all samples of the chemical I’d kept in the lab.” For a moment, Fisher’s mom looked as though she might cry. “I kept a precise log of all of my supplies … but I still came up a centiliter short.”
“It’s not your fault,” Mr. Bas said, putting a hand on his wife’s arm.
Fisher folded his hands behind his back, then proceeded to squeeze them until he thought his fingers would break. One one-hundredth of a liter of AGH. Exactly the amount that he had used to create Two. Not only did his mother know that it was missing—so did the government.
“How … how do you think that might have happened?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It could have been as simple as a temperature change that caused a little bit to evaporate. Or maybe I incorrectly recorded the amounts. The fact of the matter is that the AGH is extremely powerful—and practically untested. For all we know, one centiliter could be used to engineer whole armies! The agency is extremely unhappy—I’m lucky I still have a job.”
