by Terry Bisson
Clara smiled. She liked dogs.
But there was something about this dog she didn’t like. He had big teeth, and wires coming out of his head.
And here came two more just like him …
* * *
Natalie looked all around the room; she looked at her watch.
Her maternal concern kicked in. “I’ll go see if everything’s okay,” she whispered, standing and making her way out of the row.
The man she thought was her husband nodded and watched her go.
Then he turned his attention back to the stage, where a music teacher was leading the children in a song: The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.
* * *
Clara backed up against the wall.
One dog was to her right. Another was to her left.
One was right in front of her.
They started to growl, all three at once.
Clara started to cry.
* * *
Adam’s clone checked his watch, then craned his powerful neck to look around the auditorium, just as his wife had done.
Then he got up and made his own way out of the row.
“Excuse me. Excuse me…”
Natalie hurried down the deserted corridor.
She could hear strange noises ahead.
In the distance she saw two other parents, heading in the same direction.
She rounded a corner and what she saw made her blood run cold—then hot.
“Mommy!” yelled Clara.
Natalie ran between the lurking, growling dogs and picked up her little girl.
She tried to escape but the dogs forced her back against the wall, snapping viciously at her legs and hands.
Natalie yelled at the man and the woman who were approaching from the other direction. The man was carrying what looked like a phone.
“Please! Help! Can’t you see what’s happening? Call the police!”
But they weren’t parents. And it wasn’t a phone.
Vincent showed Natalie the remote.
“See this?” he said with a smile. “It’s the only thing keeping these dogs from tearing her apart. So be quiet and come with us.”
* * *
Where were they? Adam’s clone walked faster and faster down the empty corridor.
He heard a noise—a scuffling just ahead.
He turned a corner just in time to see Natalie and Clara being dragged out the back door of the school by Talia and Vincent.
The dogs were snapping at their heels.
“Adam!” Natalie yelled.
He broke into a run—then dove for cover as Vincent turned and leveled his foosh gun.
Foosh!
Foosh!
The clone ducked behind a water cooler, then scrambled back to his feet. He ran and opened the door.
Fwump fwump fwump …
A helicopter—an incongruous sight in the playground—was rising into the air.
“Clara! Natalie!” He ran out, shaking his fist toward the sky.
Vincent leaned out the open door.
Foosh!
Foosh!
* * *
Still wearing the Replacement Technologies security guard’s uniform, Adam Gibson ran around the corner of the school building just in time to see the clone—his nemesis—shaking his fist at the departing helicopter.
The clone watched as the ’copter became a dot, then a speck in the distance. Then he turned and ran back into the school.
Adam followed.
He skidded to a stop just inside the building. He heard a voice:
“You have reached 911 Police Emergency. Your call is important to us. If you are reporting a felony, press one now.”
Adam heard a beep.
“If there are any suspects or injured…”
Adam ran down the corridor toward the voice.
He found the clone at a computer screen in an empty classroom, pressing the phone icon on the screen frantically as the recorded voice continued:
“… victims currently at your location, press one now. If there are no suspects or victims on the scene…”
Adam shut the door behind him.
The clone turned, and his face went pale as he saw—himself. A little battered around the edges, and wearing an ill-fitting security guard’s uniform. But still unmistakeably—himself!
“Who are you?” he gasped.
Instead of answering, Adam stepped forward and swung.
The clone fell, knocked cold.
“That’s for sleeping with my wife,” Adam said, rubbing his sore fist. “In the damn minivan.”
Twenty-eight
Michael Drucker didn’t believe in paper. The only thing on his endangered teakwood desk was a flat-screen computer monitor.
Marshall pointed to a phone window that had just opened on the screen.
“It’s him,” he said.
Drucker nodded. He leaned forward and touched the screen.
“Mr. Gibson,” he said. “I believe you have something of mine.”
* * *
Adam was still in the classroom. His clone was still unconscious on the floor.
“No,” he said to the computer screen. “I have everything of yours.”
“And I have everything of yours,” Drucker replied coolly. “Shall we trade?”
“You read my mind,” said Adam.
“Just the highlights,” said Drucker.
“Very funny,” Adam replied. “I’ll bring the disk to the Double X Charter office tonight at ten. Be there with my family.”
He touched the screen and it went blank.
Twenty-nine
The control room of the Main Lab was quiet.
Dr. Griffin Weir was at a computer. On the screen were two windows. In each was a rotating 3-d image of the familiar double helix.
One DNA chain was labelled: Catherine Weir—donor
The other was labelled: Catherine Weir—clone
Dr. Weir selected a DNA sequence of the donor helix, and clicked it.
“Catherine Weir Donor,” droned the computer’s voice.
“X-linked dominant genome sequence for ovarian cancer. Life expectancy, forty-five years.”
Dr. Weir then selected a sequence of the clone DNA.
“Catherine Weir Clone. Ovarian cancer genome sequence deleted. Autosomal recessive genome sequence for cystic fibrosis inserted. Life expectancy: one to five years.”
Dr. Weir rubbed his eyes. He stared at the screen in disbelief. Then he keyed another command into the system.
“Loading file: Johnny Phoenix Clone. One moment please…”
* * *
Adam was at his locker at the Double X Charter office, changing out of the guard’s uniform.
His clone sat on a bench nearby, rubbing his sore jaw and looking at a scrawled diagram.
“What’s this word?” he asked.
Adam looked over his shoulder. “Stairwell.”
The clone grinned. “Are you sure?”
“You should know,” said Adam, buttoning his shirt. “You’re my…”
“Clone, right,” said the clone. “They made me in the lab, like a RePet. Excuse me if I don’t believe that part of it.”
“So long as you help me,” Adam said, “I don’t care what you believe.”
The clone touched his jaw. “But knowing you needed my help, how come you started by punching me in the jaw?”
“That was the only way to stop you from calling the police,” Adam said, tying his shoes. “You know you wouldn’t have listened to me at that moment.”
The clone agreed. “I’m surprised I’m listening to you now.”
* * *
Drucker was alone in his office when the door burst open and Dr. Weir walked in.
Stormed in, was more like it. He looked ready to kill.
“Griffin,” said Drucker. “You look upset.”
“Catherine is dead.”
Drucker sat up straight. “Oh, Griffin, I’m so sorry…”
“Stop it,”
said Dr. Weir. “I know about the congenital defects you’ve been imbedding into the clone DNA. My wife, Johnny Phoenix, the others…”
“Yes,” said Drucker. “I didn’t tell you about those. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
“Understand!” Dr. Weir leaned over the desk. “You gave my wife cystic fibrosis!”
Drucker pushed back slightly from his desk. There was a button he could hit with his knee to call security. He didn’t want to do it unless he had to.
“Now calm down, Griffin. None of this was meant to hurt Catherine.”
Drucker stood up and walked to the window. He had found that a soft voice sometimes helped when a situation was getting out of hand.
“Look,” he said. “Suppose we clone a senator who promises to support us, but goes back on his word? Or suppose Johnny Phoenix wants to double his salary?”
Dr. Weir listened without answering; without any visible expression at all.
Drucker pushed on. “By giving the clones a short life expectancy, we keep our leverage. If they betray us, they’re dead. If they’re still on the team, we clone them again and no harm done. Like Catherine. I assume she’s being cloned right now, as we speak.”
“No.”
“If you’re concerned about her DNA,” said Drucker, “go through it yourself. And needless to say, there won’t be any charge for cloning her.”
“You don’t understand,” said Dr. Weir coldly. “She doesn’t want to be cloned.”
“So?” Drucker had heard that one before. “Do it anyway.”
Dr. Weir stared at him with new understanding. And new hatred.
“I promised her I wouldn’t bring her back. Michael, I’m finished. I’ve justified too much. I’ve looked the other way too often. I’m done. I quit.”
Drucker shook his head gently. “I can’t let you quit. I need you.”
“You don’t need me,” said Dr. Weir. “The whole procedure is automated. Even Marshall can do it. Soon you’ll have the laws changed. You can have all the researchers you want.”
“None of them would be you,” said Drucker. Sometimes flattery worked better than threats. Besides, he actually meant it.
“It’s over,” said Dr. Weir, holding up his hands. “I’m finished.”
With a soft smile, Drucker opened a desk drawer. “I’m going to give you the greatest gift that you can possibly imagine.”
He reached into the drawer and pulled out a small foosh gun.
“I’m going to save your life,” he continued. “I’m going to save Catherine’s life. I’m going to save our relationship. And I’m going to save your marriage.”
Dr. Weir looked at him in horror. “Michael, what are you…”
“I’m going to kill you now, and we’ll clone you from your most recent syncording. Then we’ll clone Catherine from her last syncording. You get it?” Drucker raised the gun and adjusted a dial on the side. “You see what I’m doing for you? You and Catherine will be back together and neither one of you will remember that you promised not to clone her, or even that she died. And of course you won’t remember this conversation with me.”
Dr. Weir backed away. “Michael, I beg you…”
Foosh!
The beam was dialed down so small that the shot drilled a tiny hole just inside Dr. Weir’s left eye. No blood, no pain, no mess. No memories. He was dead before he hit the thick, hand-woven carpet.
“You’re welcome,” said Drucker, as he put the gun away and closed the drawer.
Thirty
The small airfield was deserted. The hangars all dark, and the offices shut.
The SUV pulled in from the highway and sped across the runway toward the Double X Charter offices.
Suddenly it was lit from above.
Fwump fwump fwump …
“That’s far enough!” boomed a voice from the sky.
Marshall slammed on the brakes. Talia looked up and saw the Whispercraft hovering overhead. Its spotlight made a pool in which the SUV was trapped, like a fly in amber.
“Show me my family!” said the voice.
Marshall looked at Talia and shrugged. “Let’s show him his family.”
Opening two doors at once, he and Talia rolled out of the SUV, already firing.
Foosh!
Foosh!
The plasma blasts lit up the sky, searing the Whispercraft, which was only forty feet overhead.
The tail rotor shredded and threw blades into the sky. Marshall ducked one, and watched with professional pleasure as the big aircraft began to spin, faster and faster, out of control.
Talia kept firing, shattering the glass of the cockpit.
Foosh!
Whump! The Whispercraft hit the ground, and the main rotor snapped. Black smoke began to pour out of the engine compartment.
Guns at the ready, Talia and Marshall both sprinted toward the wreckage. Marshall yanked the cockpit door open, and Talia leapt in, gun at the ready.
The cockpit was empty; no one was at the controls.
Talia and Marshall exchanged a look. The plane was about to blow …
* * *
Several miles away, Adam hovered in a different Whispercraft.
While he worked the controls with his right hand, his left operated the remote, which covered his left hand like a clear plastic mitt.
Adam watched the scene on the remote monitor until it went black.
He winced. It was his plan—but it was his machine, too. He pulled the remote control unit off his left hand and dropped it onto the empty copilot’s seat.
Then he descended. The building below was familiar—a circular lab surrounded by offices, atriums, and beautifully landscaped grounds.
He landed on a rooftop pad on the central circular building.
A security guard was on him before the main rotor had spun down.
“Hey! This is a private pad. You can’t land that here!”
Adam was prepared for this. “I’m here for Mr. Drucker,” he said as he handed the guard the contract he and Hank had signed with Drucker earlier the day before.
The guard looked it over and shrugged. He handed it back to Adam and escorted him to the roof entrance.
* * *
Below, in his office, Drucker was scowling. He was on the phone with Marshall, and he did not like what he was hearing.
“No!” said Marshall. “The disk is not here and neither is he. He was piloting it remote.”
“Both of you get back here,” snapped Drucker. “Now!”
He hung up and called security.
* * *
“Eveything’s normal, Mr. Drucker,” said Henderson, the duty officer. He stifled a yawn as he scanned the monitors in the command post. “But we’ll stay alert. What time were you planning to take off?”
“Take off? I didn’t order a.…”
Henderson saw Drucker in the phone window, slamming his fist against his desk. “Son of a bitch!”
Henderson sat up straight. Wide awake.
“Listen carefully,” Drucker said in a modulated, calm voice. “Seal the building. Full security alert. Find that pilot. He’s armed and very dangerous.”
Henderson nodded.
“And get Vincent and some men up to my office!”
He hung up.
* * *
In minutes, the central command post was on full alert. A guard was throwing switches, while Henderson was on the horn with the other security stations.
“Freeze the elevators! Shut down the—”
“There he is!” The guard pointed at one of the monitors on the wall.
Adam Gibson was running down a corridor, toward a security camera. He looked up as he passed, raised a laser pistol, and fired.
The screen went blank.
“Northeast stairwell!” said Henderson.
“There!” The guard pointed at another screen, in a bank of monitors marked SW.
Adam Gibson again, running past a security camera. With a cold smile he raised his gun and fired
.
The monitor went blank.
“Shit!” said Henderson, looking from one blank monitor to another. “He’s moving fast!”
Thirty-one
Up. Around. Down.
Adam sprinted up out of an echoing stairwell, burst through a door, bolted around a corner and started running down a long corridor.
As he ran, he demolished every security camera, alarm, and sensor that he passed.
Foosh!
Foosh!
Foosh!
A guard station was at the end. The guard had his back to the corridor. He had just gotten a call from central.
Henderson, the duty officer, was yelling from the other end of the line: “He’s heading right toward you! For Chrissakes, turn around!”
The guard turned—just in time to feel Adam’s hand on his throat, and see the barrel of a foosh gun shoved into his face.
Adam spun the guard around and shoved him face-first against the wall with the butt of his gun. With his other hand he pulled the man’s weapon from his belt and pointed it up toward the security camera.
Foosh!
* * *
“Damn!” groaned Henderson, as another screen went blank.
He turned up his speaker phone.
“Get more people up the west stairwell. We’ve got to keep him between eleven and nine!”
* * *
“You’ve got five seconds,” Adam told the guard, “to tell me where they’re holding my family.”
The guard grunted, pinned to the wall, unable to breathe.
“Four. Three…”
* * *
Wiley stood at the door to Drucker’s office, watching the corridor. Drucker was on the phone with Marshall. The CEO’s voice had the calm, unconcerned tone it always took on during crises and emergencies.
“He’s moving fast through the building. We assume he’s heading here. We’ve got a nice surprise ready if he is.”
* * *
Footsteps.
Behind him.
Adam turned and saw three guards running toward him down the hall. Two of them raised their guns.
Foosh!
Foosh!
They missed and Adam dove, hit the floor and rolled under a desk in a small lobby connecting two stairwells.
Adam slapped another powerpack into his foosh gun. It was then that he noticed the thick bundle of fiber optic cables running under the desk, into a wall connection.