Cloneward Bound

by M. E. Castle

  “Like this,” Amanda said, holding up a piece of paper. It was the sheet of notebook paper that she’d had Dr. Devilish sign. Fisher saw that in between the phrase To Sandra and his signature, Amanda had written: I need to see you. Alone. 3 P.M.

  “He didn’t mishear me,” Amanda smirked. “I told him to write ‘Sandra.’ ”

  “But …” Fisher said, and then it dawned on him. “Sandra …”

  “… Snapper,” Amanda finished, adjusting her glasses to emphasize her raised eyebrow. “Sandra’s her first name. In case you haven’t noticed, our teacher turns into a fire-engine-red wobbly-kneed wonder anytime Dr. Devilish is even mentioned. We’ll be going back to the hotel for lunch soon. I’m going to slip this into her purse as we walk into the restaurant. If this works, she’ll find it before we’re done.”

  Fisher was speechless for a moment. Amanda never let anything keep her from getting what she wanted, but this was an impressive scheme even by her standards.

  He didn’t like the idea of lying to his teacher, but this small deception was nothing compared to the massive lie he’d been frantically spinning ever since Two had come into being.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s do it. With any luck we’ll get one step closer to Two.” He just had to hope that Two’s next step didn’t take him right into the spotlight.

  CHAPTER 9

  Step one: have talent.

  Step two: get hired.

  Most people skip step one. It’s not as important.

  —GG McGee

  In the fifteen minutes it took to get the class off the bus and assembled for lunch, Fisher let FP run around like crazy in the grass next to the parking lot. Now, thankfully, the pig was calm again, and he lay in Fisher’s lap, accepting the bits and pieces of special sauce–coated French fries that Fisher periodically handed down to him.

  Some of the kids were showing each other photos they’d taken in front of the sidewalk stars, and many were still buzzing about having run into Kevin Keels at the Strange Science studio lot the day before. Fisher kept having the uncomfortable feeling that people were talking about him, too.

  Or rather—that people were talking about “Basley.”

  Fisher couldn’t believe that Two had already catapulted himself into the limelight with a single audition tape. As much as he’d marveled at Two’s ability to attain instant popularity at school, it seemed that he’d underestimated just how charismatic the clone could be.

  “Fisher,” Amanda whispered, and pointed subtly. Ms. Snapper had just come out of the restroom, looking flustered. Her cheeks had turned a strawberry shade, and she was adjusting her hair obsessively with one hand while clutching a folded-up piece of paper in the other. Amanda’s note. She had dropped it casually in Ms. Snapper’s handbag as they filed into the restaurant; obviously, it had found its target.

  “Boys and girls,” she said, reaching the middle of the big table and taking a deep breath to compose herself. “There’s been a … minor schedule change, due to some … business—important business!—that I have to attend to. I’m giving you the rest of the afternoon off.”

  The table erupted in cheers. Ms. Snapper held up a hand to silence the class. “You’ll have to stay on the hotel grounds, but you can use the pool or the other facilities if you wish. Mr. Crenshaw?”

  The reedy, bespectacled assistant librarian who had filled the last chaperone spot walked up to Ms. Snapper, paper napkin still tucked into his shirt collar.

  “Yes, ma’am?” he said.

  “You’re in charge while I’m away,” she said, and ignoring Mr. Crenshaw’s stammering protests, turned and practically sprinted from the restaurant.

  Amanda looked at Fisher with a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

  “We’ll wait until people start to leave, and we’ll slip out during the commotion,” she said. “Crenshaw won’t even notice. Yesterday he called me Penelope.”

  “Where did you learn how to be this devious?” Fisher asked, popping his last star fry into his mouth.

  “It comes naturally,” she replied with a grin.

  At the end of lunch, Mr. Crenshaw attempted to round up the class.

  “So, if everyone could just … if, perhaps, you could arrange yourselves in an orderly line …” Mr. Crenshaw spoke in a stuttering whisper. He darted from one table to another, making little brushing motions with his arms as if the students were dust motes he was trying to make float away. “P-please … if you could all just cooperate …”

  “Now’s our chance,” Amanda whispered, once Mr. Crenshaw was busy at the next table. “Follow me.” She slipped out of the group, Fisher following close behind, gripping FP tightly in Trevor’s blanket. Fisher stole a glance back as they slipped out a side door. Crenshaw was frowning at the spot that Fisher and Amanda had just vacated. But just then, a star fry smacked Crenshaw in the back of his bald head, and a table of boys burst into laughter. Fisher watched as Mr. Crenshaw swiveled around to lecture them.

  They left the hotel, and Amanda hailed a cab with a two-finger whistle that made Fisher’s teeth buzz. She gave the driver GG McGee’s address, and off they went, careening onto a massive six-lane highway and zigzagging through the lanes with such speed, Fisher felt his brain rattling in his skull. Thankfully, the office was only a few minutes’ drive away, and soon they were zipping off the highway and pulling up to GG’s office.

  The building where GG McGee worked was a swooping granite-and-glass monster, its front courtyard decorated with a statue that might have been a mythological figure—or an enormous centipede. It was difficult to tell. A flood of very important-looking men and women in very expensive, well-tailored suits went to and from the office, each talking into several electronic devices at once and wielding enough coffee to flood a living room.

  In the elevator, Fisher and Amanda were nearly suffocated by a powerful fog of perfumes and colognes. When they reached the thirty-second floor, reeling from oxygen deprivation, they stumbled out into the plush hallway. The mahogany-paneled walls and ceiling were trimmed with silver. A circular black marble reception desk stood in the middle of a cluster of smaller corridors. The young woman behind the desk was unhurriedly tapping at a keyboard and looking very bored. The plate-glass window behind her desk was big enough to drive a train through, and Fisher felt himself sway dizzily just looking through it.

  Fisher cleared his throat. “H-hello,” he said as he approached the desk. Amanda hung back.

  The receptionist looked up and glanced around, frowning. Then she raised her seat a little higher up, and saw Fisher, who was almost entirely dwarfed by her desk. She wrinkled her nose in distaste when she saw the strange-looking bundle in his arms.

  “Can I help you?” she said in a tone suggesting that “yes” was the very last answer she wanted to hear.

  “I’m here to see GG McGee,” Fisher said, feeling very small and alone, especially since Amanda seemed to be having an attack of nerves. He shot her a glance over his shoulder and tried to give her a “get-over-here” look. “My name is Fish-uh, Basley.”

  The woman let out a long breath and tapped a key, looking over her screen for a moment.

  “Fourth door on the right,” she said, pointing to a corridor with a long, manicured finger.

  “Thanks,” Fisher croaked. He felt as though he’d just drunk a pint of sandpaper. He motioned to Amanda.

  They advanced down the corridor, each step ringing hollowly on the polished marble.

  “I’ll be back,” Amanda said as soon as they reached the correct door. A huge placard read, in elaborate gold script, GG McGee.

  “Back?” Fisher spluttered. “Where are you going?”

  “Just taking care of something quickly,” she said. “Go on, I’ll be right behind you.”

  Before Fisher could respond, Amanda slipped away. Part of him wanted to chase right after her. How could she run off on him at the last second, when she had insisted on coming in the first place? How did she expect him to do this on his own
?

  Thoughts whirled through his head, faster than his mom’s gigantic centrifuge. He was posing as Two. So what would Two do? Two was brash, straightforward, fearless. He would walk right through that door without thinking twice.

  He turned back toward the door, sucked in a deep breath, and knocked.

  “Come in,” he heard McGee’s brassy voice proclaim. He turned the silver-plated knob, and walked in, FP cradled in one arm.

  The office looked like the contents of a tourist-trap gift shop had been flung into a stateroom on the Titanic. Velvet-upholstered sofas accented with gold leaf were worn down to threads by piles of cheap plastic dolls, collectible drinking cups, and bags full of kazoos. An antique-looking grandfather clock with no hour hand stood in one corner, its brass pendulum being clung to by a stuffed monkey with Velcro paws.

  GG sat behind a mahogany desk covered with bobbleheads and stacks of paper tall enough to cast long shadows. She wore a sharp-fitting gray suit and much more reasonable-looking sunglasses than the day before, although Fisher still didn’t see why she was wearing them indoors. Her hair was coiffed into a perfect sweep.

  “Basley!” she exclaimed, pointing to a leather-cushioned chair that looked like it could swallow him whole. “Come on in and have a seat. Is that our little star-to-be?” She looked at FP with a cheek-splitting grin.

  “Hi, Ms. McGee,” Fisher said, unwrapping FP’s blanket and slipping off Trevor’s headgear. “Yep, this is FP.”

  “Please, call me GG,” McGee said, flipping through a binder on her desk. “Now, I’ve been working up some ideas for the little guy—what’s his name again?”

  “FP,” Fisher repeated. “Flying Pig.”

  “I see,” McGee said. “An adorable name for a personal pet, but we’re going to need a stage name with a little more flash. What do you think of Jet Jowls, the Wonder Pig, or Ace McSnout?”

  “Um …” Fisher said, looking down at FP.

  “Too ordinary?” McGee tapped her chin. “Thinking of something more sophisticated? How about Ham-let, Prince of the Sky or Sir Flapsis Bacon?”

  “Sir Flapsis isn’t bad,” Fisher admitted honestly.

  “Well, we have plenty of time to make a final decision. Here are some ideas my team and I have been pitching back and forth. Picture it: a run-down old city full of crumbling buildings that are always catching fire. The fire department does the best it can, but they have trouble rescuing people trapped on the upper floors! So who do they send for? A humble pig gifted with the power of flight to swoop in and save the day! We’ll call it Out of the Flying Pan.”

  FP had perked up in Fisher’s lap. Noticing the large tray of baked goods on the desk, he began devouring bagels and muffins with astounding speed. GG either didn’t mind or didn’t notice.

  “Or imagine him as a superhero!” she continued. “Similar setting, a town where crime is running out of control. The police are overwhelmed. Nobody can stem the tide. Nobody except … The Pink Avenger. He uses his powers of flight, his sensitive, crime-detecting ears, and his mighty snout to fight crime. Or we can go the holiday movie route! Imagine: it’s days before Christmas and Dancer has a broken leg. How will Santa power his sleigh with only seven reindeer? But then, a lowly stable pig, the property of a poor elf farmer, accidentally falls out of the hayloft and realizes he can fly! The reindeer don’t accept him at first, but eventually he warms everyone’s hearts and fills in the eighth spot, and the sleigh can fly at last!”

  She set down her sunglasses, revealing electric-green eyes, and whisked away a tear. She leaned across the desk and started to pet FP, who began to shudder uncomfortably in response.

  “What a sweet little creature you are,” she said, scratching at FP’s ears. “You’re going to have a marvelous future in—oww!!” As FP snapped at her, she yanked her hand back quickly. Suddenly, her face contorted in a frown, and she spat out: “Why, you miserable little bacon factory! I’ll—” She caught herself quickly and immediately pasted a large, sugary smile back on her face. “… Er, sorry, I just, um … had a bad experience with a pig … as a child. As I was saying … this little fellow has a big future.” FP hopped down from the desk, spreading a trail of corn muffin crumbs as he went. “Maybe one day he’ll even be as big as my Molly.”

  “Your who?” Fisher said. His head was spinning. GG changed topics—and, apparently, personalities—so quickly, he had trouble following her train of thought.

  “Molly.” McGee picked up a small white fluffball from her lap, which had been concealed from Fisher’s view because of the mounds of stuff piled on McGee’s desk.

  Molly turned out to be a Maltese dog, smaller than FP, covered in long, white fur. She let out an annoyed yip as McGee lifted her up. McGee set Molly down on the floor and picked up a huge binder, handing it to Fisher. “She’s my pride and joy. Just look at some of the modeling work she’s done.”

  Fisher thumbed through the photo album halfheartedly, all the while wondering how he could turn the conversation to Two. There was Molly as a Roman senator, dressed in full togas and robes, Molly as an Elizabethan duchess, with big, fluffy sleeves and a wide ruff collar, Molly as Cinderella in a draping white thing that was apparently supposed to be a ball gown, Molly as an astronaut with a tiny space suit and a bubble helmet.…

  “She’s, um, very … versatile,” Fisher remarked, handing the binder back to GG.

  “I’m in discussions now to get her first major motion picture deal. Aren’t I, Mollykins? Aren’t you the most talented little … Molly!”

  GG jumped up out of her chair. FP had wandered over to one side of the office, and Molly, upon seeing him, had leapt at him and begun to hump his leg enthusiastically.

  “You are a lady.” McGee pulled Molly off the terrified-looking FP. “Sorry about that, Basley. Molly can be a little … rambunctious. Quite the little vixen! Like owner, like pet.” McGee laughed loudly. “I’ll keep her with me until we’re done with our business. Speaking of which, I have just a few preliminary legal documents for you to sign. That is, unless you think you can get a better deal with Lulu O’Lunney.” She chuckled a little to herself.

  “Oh … uh, no, not at all,” Fisher said. “I thought Lulu was big-time when I first met her, but … clearly you’re the high-caliber one around here.” He smiled so wide, he felt like his jaws would split open.

  GG beamed. “Well,” McGee said, “I’m glad you’ve come to such a reasonable conclusion.”

  She returned to her desk, placing Molly firmly in her lap, and reached into a drawer.

  A towering stack of paper landed in front of Fisher with a boom.

  McGee uncapped a pen and passed it over to Fisher. “Go ahead and give it your autograph.”

  Fisher leafed through the pages, which were filled with terms like periodical, fiduciary, notwithstanding, and heretofore. He couldn’t make the slightest sense out of any of it. He wished he had Amanda with him now. His palms were sweating, and he was no closer to finding Two than when he had set foot in the office. He needed to buy some time.

  “Before I sign anything,” he said, “I … uh … I have to consult with my legal representative.”

  “Legal representative?” McGee said. “Who might that be?”

  “Yours truly,” said a husky female voice from behind Fisher.

  He turned around and barely managed to keep his jaw in place. Amanda walked into the room wearing five-inch platform heels and a gray suit that fit her like a football jersey on a ballerina. In place of her normal glasses was a pair of mirrored aviator shades that hid half of her face.

  “And you are?” GG McGee asked, wrinkling her nose and giving Amanda a once-over.

  “J. Nadine Weathersby, Esquire,” Amanda said, her voice rumbling as low as she could push it. “Mr. Basley’s personal attorney. If you don’t mind, we’ll take a look at these later on.” She scooped the pile of legal documents into a large briefcase. “Now, if you could arrange a cab for Mr. Basley, he must be getting back to … Sunset Boulevar
d isn’t it, Basley?”

  Fisher just gaped at her mutely.

  “Sunset?” McGee said. “I thought you were staying on Melrose Place.”

  “Melrose, of course!” Amanda said. “I have so many clients, I sometimes lose track.” She lowered her glasses slightly and winked subtly at Fisher. “Now come on, Mr. Basley, we have a lot of work to do.” She hoisted Fisher out of his chair, swept up FP with her free arm, and handed him to Fisher. “Good day to you, Ms. McGee.”

  “To you, too, Ms. Weathersby,” McGee said, looking somewhat flustered. Fisher and Amanda hurried out of the office. Fisher was bursting with so many questions, he could feel them pressing at his throat. But he knew they had to wait until they were outside.

  A sense of triumph was spreading, like warmth, through his chest. They had started out with an entire city to search, and had narrowed it down to a street. They were closing in on Two.

  CHAPTER 10

  “You saved us! How ever can we repay you? … Would you like some corn?”

  —Spec script for Out of the Flying Pan

  “This thing is heavier than a bowling ball,” Amanda said, hefting the briefcase full of contract paperwork. “What was she asking you to do, sign away your soul?”

  “I’m sure there’s a section called ‘Soul Rights and Percentages’ somewhere in there,” Fisher said as they walked down the sidewalk toward the bus stop. “Where did you get all of that stuff, anyway?” He gestured to her getup.

  “Found it,” Amanda said, looking straight ahead, the immense aviators sliding up and down her nose with every wobbly step. She was obviously not used to walking in heels.

  “You just found it,” Fisher said disbelievingly, crouching down to work FP’s disguise back into place. The pig, thankfully, was sleepy after his meal in GG’s office and didn’t put up too much of a fight.

  “Yep.”

  Fisher hoisted FP in his arms and fell into step again next to Amanda. FP settled into the blanket, curling up in Fisher’s arms, while the evil-looking headgear pinned his ears back and obscured most of his face.