Criminal Destiny

by Gordon Korman

  “And money,” adds Malik, checking the price tag on a stainless steel microwave oven. “I think the outside world is expensive.”

  We manage to catapult ourselves back out through the paddlewheel door. The strong odor of Melody comes with us.

  “Okay,” says Tori. “Food and shelter.”

  “Especially food,” Malik adds.

  They’re wrong. If I were making one of my to-do lists for Denver, food, shelter, and money would be on it, sure. But those things wouldn’t be at the top.

  THINGS TO DO TODAY (ABSOLUTELY PRIORITIZED)

  •Figure out where we stand . . .

  We’re clones—exact genetic copies of some seriously bad criminals. We have no parents. We were created in test tubes using cells of the people we’re cloned from. Fine, we get that. It’s kind of gross, and a little mind-blowing, but there’s no point in obsessing over it, because here we are. The one thing we can’t do is change the past.

  The real question is how do clones fit into society? Are there a lot of us? I can’t stop scanning the vast crowds of people in downtown Denver. How many of them are clones? One percent? Ten percent? More? Could it be a common thing? Randy didn’t think so.

  And how do you tell who’s who? The McNally students didn’t seem any different from us, and neither did the non-Osiris Serenity kids.

  So what’s our status? Are clones the same as regular people? Are we second-class citizens? Outcasts? Monsters, even? And what about the criminals we’re cloned from? Do we get blamed for their bad deeds? Are we criminals, too, because of them? That seems pretty unfair, but anything is possible. The truth is we don’t know. We might as well have just landed on another planet.

  “First things first,” I tell the others. “We need to find out what it means to be a clone.”

  “I wish I had my iPad,” Eli says wistfully. “We need the internet.”

  We had internet in Serenity, but it turned out to be fake. Project Osiris controlled everything we were exposed to.

  We wander around awhile, peering into shop windows with wide eyes. It seems crazy that you can buy toilet paper in one store and then walk next door where they’ll sell you a five-thousand-dollar handbag. Not far down the block is a huge display of movies. We recognize a few, but anything with guns or explosions or fighting on the cover is completely new to us.

  Tori points across the street. “How about that place? They have internet.”

  I read the sign:

  BITES AND BYTES

  INTERNET CAFÉ AND THINK TANK

  TRY OUR WORLD-FAMOUS HOMEMADE HUMMUS

  “They have food,” Malik amends. “Let’s go.”

  “We have to be careful with our money,” Eli reminds us.

  “You’ll save a fortune in funeral expenses when I don’t starve to death,” Malik assures him.

  I won’t try to say Bites and Bytes is a nice place or even a bad one, because we have absolutely nothing to compare it to. This place smells like coffee, but it’s pretty clean, with computers on all the tables.

  The other customers look up when we come in. Once again, I’m expecting someone to yell out a clone warning and tackle us while the cashier pulls the clone alarm. Then the police will send the clone squad to put us in clone-cuffs and haul us away to clone prison.

  I’ve got to get a grip.

  The customers go back to their snacking and web surfing, and we find a free table. Eli slides in behind the keyboard, and the rest of us head up to the counter.

  Note to self: Never buy food when you’re super hungry. We clean that place out, spending far more than any of us want to admit to Eli. We even try the world-famous homemade hummus. Within minutes, every last crumb is gone.

  There’s something about watching Eli when he’s on the internet. His fingers dance across the keyboard at improbable speeds, and his concentration is so perfect that you could shoot off fireworks next to his ear and he wouldn’t notice.

  The web pages pile up, overlaying one another on the screen: definitions of clone; history of cloning; medical details; cloning technology; “To Clone or Not to Clone; An Ethical Analysis”; cloning and animals . . .

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” Malik prods. “Are we human or what?”

  “How many others are there just like us?” I add.

  At last, Eli leans back. “None,” he replies. We can barely hear him.

  “None?” Tori echoes.

  “Scientists have experimented with cloning cells,” Eli explains faintly. “They’ve cloned animals, with different degrees of success. No people.”

  “You mean we’re it?” demands Malik.

  “According to this,” Eli explains, “the larger and more complex the organism, the harder it is to clone. But the main reason there are no human clones is”—he takes a deep breath—“human cloning is illegal in every single country in the world.”

  We’re silent as this sinks in. Over the past weeks we’ve come to accept the fact that we’re clones. But never did we consider that we might be the only ones.

  Tori finds her shaky voice first. “I always knew Project Osiris was kind of mad science-y. But this makes us . . . freaks.”

  Eli and Malik are pale as ghosts.

  “Are you kidding?” I crow. “This is the best news I’ve heard since we busted out of Serenity!”

  Malik glares at me. “How do you figure that?”

  “Think!” I insist. “This is proof positive that the whole Project Osiris is a crime! Don’t you see? All we have to do is go to the police and tell them about it. And if they ask for evidence, it’s us.”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Eli says. “I mean, we were nervous about revealing ourselves as clones when we thought there were probably others. But now we’ll be telling them that a whole new type of human exists. That’s going to be a big shock.”

  “All the more reason why they can’t ignore us,” I argue.

  “And when the cops ask us who we’re clones of?” Malik prompts.

  “We’ll tell the truth,” I reply readily. “That isn’t our fault either. None of us are crooks; we’re just cloned from them. The real criminals in all this are our so-called parents. When we expose Osiris, the police will arrest them and shut down Serenity for the fraud that it is.”

  “I’m not so sure I want my parents arrested,” Tori says unsteadily. “Maybe they deserve it, but . . .” Her voice trails off.

  Malik’s face is flushed and even Eli looks a little torn. His “dad,” Felix Hammerstrom, is the top dog of Project Osiris. If anybody needs to be locked up, it’s him. Believe me, I understand. When I picture my “mother,” I don’t see evil; I see Mom. We weren’t mistreated or abused. We felt loved. Maybe we were loved in a way. But that doesn’t change the fact that the reason our families resembled real families is it was part of the experiment.

  “Listen, you guys,” I tell them, “I know it’s tough to turn on the people who raised you. It’s tough for me too. But when the Purples came after us at McNally, who do you think sent them? We’ll never be free until we take down Project Osiris once and for all.”

  They don’t look convinced, which, frankly, amazes me. It’s a big decision, but it isn’t a very hard one. Right is right, and wrong is wrong. What more than that do they need?

  I play my trump card. “It isn’t just about us, you know. There are six more kids just like us still in Serenity under Osiris’s thumb. We owe them the same chance at a life that we want for ourselves.”

  “Good point,” Eli concedes. “They’re all good points. But we have to be careful to think everything through before we do anything rash.”

  “For how long?” I shoot back. “Until the Purples catch up with us and drag us back to Serenity?” I glance out the café window and immediately spot a uniformed police officer. He’s standing in the middle of a busy intersection, directing the traffic with hand signals and a whistle. “Trust me.”

  “Amber, wait—” Tori pleads.

 
But I’m already running out the front door. There’s no time like the present for doing the right thing. I learned that from Mom in Contentment class. I take some satisfaction in using a Serenity slogan to help put an end to their sick game.

  The instant I step into the road, there’s angry honking, screeching brakes, and I’m almost hit by a taxi. In the outside world, even when you’re doing the right thing, you’d better watch where you’re going. By the time I make it to the policeman, I must be wild-eyed and breathless.

  He’s not pleased with me. “What’s your problem, kid? Haven’t you ever seen a red light before?”

  Well, not before a few days ago. But it’s more important to get to the point. “I want to report a crime!”

  His eyes are suddenly alert. “What crime?”

  “Human cloning.”

  He looks startled. “That’s a new one on me. We don’t get much human cloning in the traffic department.”

  I have to shout to be heard over the engine noise and honking. “I’m part of an experiment in Serenity, New Mexico. They made eleven clones, but only four of us escaped—”

  He cuts me off. “You know, interfering with a police officer in the performance of his duty is against the law. Do you think this is some kind of joke? People are trying to get places. And they can’t, because you’re out here pulling my chain.”

  “I’m trying to tell you about a serious crime—an experiment called Project Osiris!”

  “Where’s your mother?” he demands.

  “Aren’t you listening?” I explode. “I don’t have a mother! I’m a clone!”

  I guess I finally get through to him, because his anger and impatience disappear. He starts the traffic moving again, and speaks into his walkie-talkie. “I need a black-and-white. I’ve got a situation here.”

  We make our way to the far corner.

  “Thank you for listening to me,” I say gratefully. “I know this must be a shock. We only learned the truth ourselves a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  A police car pulls up to the curb, and I’m bundled into the backseat. I’m filled with a very Serenity-like sense of righteous justice. It won’t be easy to watch our parents put on trial, but this is the best course for us—the only course, really. The others will thank me in the end.

  The traffic cop speaks to the driver. “Tell them to call a shrink who works with kids.”

  The rear door locks engage with a loud click.

  “No!” I cry. “I’m not crazy! It’s the truth!” I yank at the handle but it clicks uselessly.

  The black-and-white makes a wide U-turn and heads for the police station. The last thing I see before we roar away is Eli, Tori, and Malik, their faces pressed against the front window of Bites and Bytes.

  They don’t look grateful. They look very, very scared.

  5

  TORI PRITEL

  The sight of that police car driving away with Amber is one of the most awful things I’ve ever seen. (And I’ve seen a lot of awful things lately.)

  Malik is pacing on the sidewalk in front of Bites and Bytes. “We begged her not to do anything stupid! And what does she do? Something stupid!”

  “You can’t blame her,” I defend my best friend. “None of us understand how things work in the outside world.”

  “Which is why it makes sense to do nothing!” Malik insists. “But that’s not good enough for Laska! She knows better!”

  Eli takes off down the block in a futile attempt to keep up with the car. His desperation triggers the same response in Malik and me. If we lose track of Amber in this huge city, we’ll never lay eyes on her again.

  It’s all my fault. Amber’s my best friend. I should have been keeping an eye on her. She took the news about Project Osiris harder than any of us. Why didn’t I know that if she believed she had an easy fix for our situation, she’d jump into it without thinking?

  We can still see the squad car, but it gets harder to spot as it pulls away, and traffic fills in the street behind it. To make matters worse, the sidewalks are crowded, and we’re scrambling around an obstacle course of pedestrians and dogs and mailboxes and fire hydrants. Malik gets stuck behind two guys carrying a couch and loses ground. I avoid them, dance around a garbage can, and catch up to Eli.

  “We lost her!” he pants.

  Not me. I’ve trained myself to notice details other people miss (back when I thought my future would be as an artist, not a fugitive). The police car is distant, but I’ve got it in my sights—it’s sandwiched between an SUV and a city bus. Lacking the breath for a verbal answer, I point.

  We’re just about to blast through the next intersection when a big semi lumbers right out in front of us. Eli and I practically run into it, but manage to pull up mere inches from the trailer’s vast paneled side. We have no choice. We stand flat-footed, waiting for it to inch into the main road.

  Malik catches up to us, shaking his fist at the driver. “You got a gas pedal on that thing?”

  The driver yells back a word I’ve never heard before, although I’m pretty sure it’s rude. (Malik might fit perfectly into the outside world.)

  And then the truck moves on, opening up our view of the road ahead. The police car is obviously gone, and Amber with it.

  I’m running again. “Hurry!” I call back. “We can’t lose her.”

  Eli shakes his head sadly. “We already have. That car could have turned down any one of these side streets.”

  “She’s history,” Malik confirms.

  I’m normally pretty levelheaded, but this is too much. “You mean that’s it? Bye-bye Amber, nice knowing you?”

  “We can maybe hang around Bites and Bytes,” Eli suggests lamely. “On the off-chance she gets loose, maybe it’ll occur to her to look for us there.”

  “How’s she going to get loose?” I demand. “She isn’t lost; she’s under arrest! The Purples are obviously in touch with the Denver Police, and they’re going to hear that a thirteen-year-old girl got picked up by the cops in District Six! They’ll scoop her up so fast, she’ll be back in Serenity by nightfall.”

  “District Six?” Malik repeats. “Where’d you get that?”

  I’m upset. “It was printed on the door of the squad car! If you stopped stuffing your face long enough to open your eyes, you might see something!”

  “District Six,” Eli repeats, and you can almost see the wheels turning inside his logical mind. “The city must be carved up into police districts!”

  I struggle to contain my surge of hope. We haven’t found Amber—not yet.

  But at least we have something to go on.

  Back at Bites and Bytes, it takes Eli just a few seconds to find the website of the Denver Police Department. Turns out, we’re right about the districts. Better yet, each district has its own separate police station.

  “Where they take pinheads who get themselves arrested!” Malik exclaims.

  “Here’s the address of the District Six precinct house.” Deftly, Eli copies the information, calls up a map program, and pastes the details into the search field. According to the computer, it’s only 0.9 miles away, on North Washington.

  “So now what?” Malik challenges as we head over there. “We can’t exactly knock on the door of the station and say ‘Give us back our dimwit.’”

  “We’ll just have to wing it,” Eli decides. “We don’t even know how much trouble she’s in. Maybe they’ll just ask her a few questions and cut her loose.”

  “Maybe,” I agree. (But deep down, I’m thinking: We couldn’t get that lucky.)

  We know we’re in the right place even before we see the police station itself. There are squad cars parked on both sides of the block, and officers coming and going everywhere. We’re from Serenity, where the only uniforms are worn by Purples. So we’re already on edge by the time we reach the door.

  For some reason, I’m struck by a random flashback—dress-up party, my fifth birthday, or maybe even my fourth. I’m Ariel from The Lit
tle Mermaid, fishtail and all. I forget which of the princesses Amber’s dressed as.

  And now we have to spring her from the police. How times have changed.

  Malik swallows hard. “Who knows what Laska told the cops about us? We could get arrested too.”

  I nod. “Good point. Only one of us should go in. That leaves two more on the outside just in case we need to do a double rescue.”

  “I’ll go,” Eli volunteers. “What do I say?”

  I mull it over. “If Amber told them anything about Serenity, Purple People Eaters, or clones, they might think she’s crazy. So say she’s your sister. You brought her into the city for a psychiatrist’s appointment and she took off on you. It’s a big mess—you’re looking everywhere, your parents are worried sick, and if you don’t get to the doctor’s right away, you’ll miss the appointment. Make up a name. Dr. Reiner. His office is on Main Street—I’m pretty sure every big city has a Main Street. Got it?”

  They both stare at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I don’t know about harmony and contentment,” Malik says with respect, “but it didn’t take you very long to unlearn honesty.”

  “You’re kind of good at this,” Eli agrees.

  “There’s obviously nothing to be good at,” I tell them. “You just think about the result you want and the result you don’t want, and figure out a story that’ll get you the good thing and avoid the bad one.”

  “You should do it,” Malik concludes. “You’re the best liar.”

  In Serenity, we were always taught that nothing is worse than being dishonest. “It’s not lying. It’s strategy.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” he shoots back. “It’s not your fault you got cloned from some crook who wouldn’t know the truth if she tripped over it. Look at the bright side. At least she’s not a murderer.”

  “You’d better hope,” I seethe.

  That’s how I end up being the one who marches into the police station to try to talk Amber out of custody. (I suppose it’s only fair—she’s my best friend.)

  I don’t know what I expect—rows of cells, prisoners staring out through the bars, and one of them Amber. But inside I find a dreary waiting room with a desk sergeant at the front.