Popular clone, p.3
Popular Clone, page 3
“About normal, I guess. Treated like I have a contagious disease and generally shunned.”
She frowned. “Fisher, I hope you know not to buy into what any of those boys say. People your age aren’t usually as bright as you are, and sometimes other kids take that as a personal insult.”
“I know,” Fisher said, “but it’s less than a month into the school year, and I just feel like everyone else knows where to go and what to say and I’m just wandering around trying not to get knocked over.”
“Everyone has a tough time when they’re twelve years old. Bullies are just the people who deal with that frustration by taking it out on those around them. In a few years, they’ll look back and realize how childish they were being.”
Fisher sighed and nodded, wondering if he could possibly last a few more years. This was why he didn’t like to talk to his parents about school; they just didn’t understand. They always told him that things would get better. But time was passing, nothing was getting better, and he was sick of waiting. Desperate to change the subject, he said, “So, what about your day at work, Mom?”
“Oh, we’re starting to see some progress with the artificial protein chains. I made a few tweaks to the sequence, and things look much better.”
Helen Bas was a world-renowned microbiologist, biochemist, and genetic engineer, and much of her work involved efforts to increase food production around the world. As she went on about her day, she took a sharp knife and thinly sliced a tomato the size of a basketball— one of the runts of the patch. The properly grown ones would have had to come in through the garage door. His mother had spent many years genetically developing giant vegetables and was largely responsible for helping significantly close the gap in world hunger.
“One of my biggest problems now is industrial espionage,” she continued, passing a slice of tomato to Fisher that was as big as his dinner plate.
“What, like spies?” Fisher said.
“Exactly,” Mrs. Bas said. Fisher choked on a tomato seed when she mentioned the spies. He coughed and the seed flew out of his mouth, landing in his father’s wineglass. His father, absentminded as usual, didn’t even notice as he took a sip.
“The formula I’m working on is very powerful,” Mrs. Bas went on, “and it could be very dangerous. We need layers of security to catch agents from other companies trying to sneak into our lab.”
For about a year, Fisher’s mom had been working on a delicate and carefully guarded project. The government had approached her team with a revolutionary task: to develop a synthetic version of human growth hormone, the natural chemical that stimulates growth and healing in humans. This artificial version was intended to achieve the same effects as natural HGH, but at a much faster pace. His mother had named it AGH, for Accelerated Growth Hormone.
She’d been more high strung ever since the project had begun, but she was determined to see the project through. If the AGH was perfected, it could start a revolution in medical technology. Some diseases could be wiped out entirely, treatments for others drastically improved. Surgery recovery times and physical therapy could be advanced far beyond anything the medical world had ever seen. Fisher just hoped all of these long days and extra hours would get her the breakthrough she was looking for.
“Why would someone want to steal your work?” asked Fisher, deliberately knocking over his glass. Intentional spills were actually encouraged by his parents to make sure the table was in proper working order. With a snap of plastic joints, the table arm zipped up, caught the glass before it hit, and righted it.
“The problem with AGH,” she said, and the way she pronounced it made it sound momentarily as if she, too, had a tomato seed lodged in her throat, “is that it’s a very powerful substance that can be used in many ways, some of which we can’t even predict.”
“You could alter a person physically to make him more powerful, or even grow an army from embryos in a matter of weeks,” said his father. “Like every new technology, it can be used for good or evil purposes.”
The way Fisher’s dad said “evil purposes” gave Fisher a quick chill.
Walter Bas, Fisher’s dad, divided his attention between particle physics and field biology. Years ago he won the Nobel Prize for his pioneering work on the biology of sea slugs. That particular species of slug was virtually extinct, because they’d become too lazy to choose mates. He had manipulated the slugs’ DNA so that a single slug possessed both male and female parts and could reproduce all by itself.
Fisher was proud of his father, although he did wish that his last name had not become synonymous with the Bas-Hermaphrodite-Sea-Slug Hypothesis.
It used to be great being the kid of two genius inventors. When he was little, all the neighborhood kids loved to come over and play tag around the cucumber forest, or try to beat the refrigerator at a game of chess. Then, a few years ago, it was as though a switch flipped in everyone else’s head. Suddenly, people who were curious, who wanted to learn new things and explore the world, were nerds.
Fisher could never adjust. He loved discoveries and inventions and knowledge. He didn’t understand what had happened to all the other curious, adventurous kids he used to play with.
“Wow,” Fisher said, “that sounds—”
All of a sudden, he was cut off by the breep, breep, breep of the house alarm. Someone was on the perimeter fence!
Fisher’s mom leapt from the table. “Intruder location!” she shouted.
A map popped up on the opposite wall showing a top-down view of the house, and a small dot appeared just to the side of the front gate, on the inside of the fence.
“Immobilize!” Mrs. Bas commanded as she darted from the room toward the front of the house, knocking over a chair in the process.
Security systems reared up from hidden spots in the front yard. With an airy pomf! they spat out enormous nets of artificial spider silk. Fisher’s father had engineered them based on an Amazonian specimen he had collected.
“Target immobilized!” said the house in its perpetually upbeat, booming voice, as if an immobilized target was exactly what it had wanted for its birthday.
Fisher followed his parents to the front door. Outside, they heard hard breathing and what sounded like surprised shouting. They opened the door, walked out into the yard, and realized that it wasn’t shouting.
It was squealing.
FP was struggling frantically with his little hooves, superglued to the fence by dozens of adhesive web strands. Fisher ran forward to help, getting his hands just as stuck in the sticky, tacky mess of spider strands. FP looked at him in panic and squeaked repeatedly.
“I’m sorry, boy,” Fisher said, trying to wrench his pet away from the fence. “What were you doing out here, anyway?”
FP squeaked again, moving his forelegs the tiny amount that he could. “Were you trying to fly with the ducks again?” FP snorted guiltily, and Fisher sighed. “Well, at least you have goals.”
Mrs. Bas let out a deep breath, the tension and fear slowly leaving her face as Mr. Bas put his arm around her shoulders.
“De-immobilize,” she said to the house. A smaller apparatus popped out of the side of one of the net-guns, and sprayed pig and boy alike with a solvent that turned the webbing to a thin liquid instantly. FP squeaked in surprise as he dropped the few feet to the ground. He then gathered his bearings, shook off the liquid like a dog would, and trotted back toward the house with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Target de-immobilized!” said the house in the same cheery tone.
Fisher returned with his parents to the dinner table. He held FP on his lap this time, scratching his pet’s ears and back as FP napped off the excitement of the evening.
“I’m sorry, Fisher,” his mother said, smiling a bit sadly. “I may have overreacted a bit when I was programming the house’s security settings. I’m just worried about what could happen if someone got a hold of my work. In the wrong hands …”
“In Dr. X’s hands, you mean,” said his father, furrowing his brow.
“He’s made no secret of the fact that he wants to secure the formula for himself,” she replied, taking a sip of water. “Our security has already caught three of his agents trying to break into the lab complex. He’s a ruthless man, whoever he is, and he’s willing to do anything to advance his own purposes.”
Fisher hoped his parents wouldn’t notice that he was blushing. His parents made no secret of the fact that they despised Dr. X. Fisher felt ashamed for thinking Dr. X was actually pretty cool.
“He may be secretive and a little odd,” said his dad as FP twitched under Fisher’s hand, dreaming about soaring through the sky. “But there are limits to what he can and will do. Remember everything he’s done for our city! For our country—and for science at large! I know he’s your fiercest rival, and he wants to beat your team to the discovery of functioning AGH, but I can’t see him going so far as to actually rob us to get ahead.”
“I hope you’re right,” his mom said, her voice full of doubt. A few seconds of silence followed, broken only by Fisher’s chewing and the dreamy snuffling of the pig in his lap.
“Speaking of hostile invasions,” his father said, his voice low and frustrated, “did you see the article in the paper yesterday about the new King of Hollywood franchise that’s going to be opening up nearby? It’s an outrage.”
“An outrage? How come?” Fisher blurted, an excited edge to his voice. He loved the restaurant chain, and there hadn’t been one in Palo Alto—until now!
“Because of where they’re putting it,” his father replied. “They bought out a plot on land that was supposed to be undertheprotectionofthestategovernment. They’regoing to be paving over acres of pristine peat marshland.” Fisher’s father was one of only a few dozen people who had ever used the word pristine to describe a peat marsh. “That is precious land among all of the development around here, and moreover, it is one of the few natural habitats left to the DBYBBD.”
“The what?” said Fisher and his mother simultaneously.
“The double-billed yellow-bellied bilious duck,” he said. Seeing his wife’s and son’s blank stares, he continued, “It’s a very rare species of duck, and most of them have been pushed off the West Coast. If this land is taken away from them, I don’t know if the species will be able to survive outside of captivity.” He shook his head. “Once again consumer culture nudges a precious piece of the ecosystem toward its doom.”
The news plunged both of his parents into gloomy meditation, and the Bas family spent the rest of dinner in comparative quiet. But however much Fisher might try and empathize with the plight of the—he had already forgotten the name of the duck—he couldn’t help but be pleased by the news of a King of Hollywood opening right in the neighborhood. Their star-shaped spicy fries were the stuff of legend, and Fisher relished the thought of slipping out of school during lunch period, escaping the horrors of his cafeteria, and drowning his sorrows in spicy sauce.
Later that night as Fisher got ready for bed, he selected a small bottle from the hidden cabinet he had built behind his bookshelves.
Secret Ingredients
King of HollywoodSpecial Sauce:
mayonnaise
tobasco
ketchup (good possibility per 3-23 test)
clam juice
garlic?
hot peppers
orange soda
lemon juice
duck fat? (ew)
cheddar cheese
chicken stock
chicken liver (blech!)
white asparagus
red Skittles (maybe
“Mmm,” he said as he swallowed the serum. “Doritos flavored.”
By the time his mother came in to say good night, his skin had broken out in real but entirely cosmetic red dots.
“I think I’m sick, Mom. Maybe contagious. I should stay home tomorrow.”
Mrs. Bas sighed, having seen things like this many times before. She knew Fisher dreaded going to school, and knew just as well that the only way it would get better was for him to buckle down and face it.
“Fisher, you’ve already been out as many sick days as the school allows. Even if I let you stay home, you’d get in trouble with them. I know you’re having a hard time, but I promise you, it won’t be like this forever. Now get some sleep.” She kissed him on the forehead and walked out.
“There’s always college,” Fisher said, a little bit of hope remaining in his voice. “I know I could get into a science program if I applied now. If I went to Stanford, I wouldn’t even have to leave home.”
“Fisher, if you feel like you don’t fit in now, just imagine how it would be if everyone around you was almost twice your age. College will come soon enough. Besides, tomorrow’s Friday. Just one more day and then you’ll have the whole weekend to relax. Sleep well, okay? I love you.”
“Love you, too,” Fisher said, and then rolled over next to FP, who was already snoring lightly—no doubt dreaming of open fields, fresh hay, and infinite snacks. Fisher closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, savoring the precious hours of unconsciousness like the calm before a big, ugly, hormone-warped storm.
CHAPTER 4
Hot air is less dense than cold air and thus rises. Ergo: Gassy Greg’s farts must be perfectly room temperature, as they hover and hover, and never disperse.
—Fisher Bas, Scientific Principles and Observations of the Natural World (unpublished)
Fisher leaned carefully over the tank in Mr. Granger’s room, scattering food pellets for Einy and Berg. He wished that he were in Mr. Granger’s position: home sick. Granger missed almost as many days as Fisher did.
Fisher leaned over the tank and picked up Einstein, holding him gently in one hand and looking into his beady, black eyes as his jittering jaws worked their way through a morsel.
“I don’t understand people, Einy. In science, there are rules for everything. But people don’t behave according to rules, do they? I have no idea what people are thinking, or what they might do next.” The mouse continued to chew, twitching his nose and brushing Fisher’s fingertips with his whiskers. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so smart. If I were a dumb little thing like you, scurrying around a little box waiting to be fed, I bet I’d be pretty happy. You’re happy, aren’t you?” Einstein continued to twitch. “Well, enjoy it, Einy. And if you don’t see me again, it’ll be because I finally reach my pummelings-per-lifetime limit.”
The bell rang sharply, and Fisher, realizing he would be late, slipped the mouse back into the tank and hurried off to debate class.
He opened the door as quietly as he could, but then tripped on someone’s backpack, and all the debaters turned their eyes to him. So much for a stealthy entrance.
He slipped into a seat near the middle of the room, next to Amanda Cantrell. Her jade-green eyes blazed right through him when he sat down. Amanda was small, but intense and often intimidating. She captained both the debate and the girls’ wrestling teams, and was a lot stronger than she looked.
“Where have you been? You missed the opening arguments,” she said in a hissed whisper.
“I had to feed Mr. Granger’s mice,” said Fisher. “He’s out sick today.”
“Something you know all about,” she said bitingly, then softened a bit. “I’m sorry, Fisher. We’ve just been getting our butts kicked so far.”
“What’s the topic?”
“The new King of Hollywood, and whether—”
“Whether it’s infringing on the territory of a duck with fifty adjectives in its name?”
Amanda looked impressed. She even smiled, just a little. “Yep, that’s it. We’re on the side of the ducks.” Fisher lent his attention to the current speaker, who was on the pro-restaurant team.
“As you can see clearly on this map of California marshland, there are several other spots around this and sur-rounding counties where the bili … the triple … the, uh, duck, regularly makes its home,” said Trevor Weiss in a nasal voice. Today he was even more buttoned up than usual, and his stiff hairdo was dangerously approaching a pompadour. “Furthermore, as a source of sustenance to humans, especially kids such as ourselves, there can be no denying that the value of a King of Hollywood is immeasurable, and its excellent fry sauce even more so.”
There were subdued exclamations of approval and scattered applause. The two sides went along more or less the same lines, the pro-duck arguments attempting to play on the students’ natural feelings toward small, cute animals, and the pro-restaurant arguments appealing to their love of tasty fast food.
Amanda watched the arguments go back and forth like a hawk, keeping careful track of the debate and making furious scribbly notes with her pink pen. When she saw that the debate had reached a standstill, and neither side would alter its strategy, she chose her moment to strike.
Fisher accompanied her to the front of the room, borrowing her pen to take down notes on her concluding argument. Amanda stepped confidently toward the microphone, and even though her head barely cleared the podium, somehow she seemed to fill the room with her presence.
“The team arguing in favor of the King of Hollywood has been happily sidestepping the issue of whether or not it can rightfully occupy the land in question,” she began, and instantly a hush fell on the room. Fisher marveled at Amanda’s ability to take control.
“Instead you’ve all chosen to reiterate again and again the benefits that the franchise will bring,” she went on. “My teammates have been a little bit more on topic, but only insofar as playing on sympathy toward the little animals in the marsh, describing their feathers, their family habits, and their daily lives, which even I have to admit are beyond boring.”
Corey Devonshire and Jenny Bits, who had both described the ducks’ dietary habits at length, squirmed uncomfortably in their seats. Amanda narrowed her eyes right at them. Corey adjusted the collar on his polo shirt to break eye contact, and Jenny decided to carefully study the wall.
“The issue in question isn’t restaurants, and it’s not ducks. It’s land,” Amanda resumed, adjusting her pink headband and allowing herself a small, proud smile. “The land that we are supposed to be talking about was signed into protected status by the state legislature ten years ago. That status has not been revoked. It doesn’t matter how good the restaurant is. It doesn’t matter how many thousands of acres the ducks could still live on. The land, itself, was a part of a transaction that was not sanctioned by law. No commercial interest has any right to it. End of story.”
