by M. E. Castle
EGMONT
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First published by Egmont USA, 2014
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Copyright © Paper Lantern Lit, 2014
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www.theclonechronicles.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Castle, M. E.
Game of clones / M.E. Castle.
1 online resource.—(The Clone chronicles; #3)
Summary: Twelve-year-old Fisher Bas and the clone he created try to prevent a mad scientist and his evil clone brother from trying to take over the world through a behavior-altering television program.
Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.
ISBN 978-1-60684-472-4 (EBook)—ISBN 978-1-60684-234-8 (hardcover) [1. Cloning—Fiction. 2. Reality television programs—Fiction. 3. Scientists—Fiction. 4. Bullies—Fiction. 5. Middle schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C2687337
[Fic]—dc23
2013021138
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
v3.1
For my mother,
Who has given me love and care in infinite supply
And has never explicitly voiced a wish
To return me to the thrift store
Where I was purchased.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Acknowledgments
Scientists aren’t the people who always have good ideas. They’re the people whose bad ideas make the biggest explosions.
—Fisher Bas, Personal Notes
“The goat ate my pants.”
“Are you sure?”
“I was wearing them when I went to sleep. I woke up with a satisfied goat staring down at me, and no pants. Is that enough evidence for you?”
Thus began episode six of the new reality TV sensation Family Feudalism, featuring none other than long-separated brothers Martin and Harold Granger, better known to Fisher as Dr. Devilish and Dr. X.
Dr. X, a short and spindly man with a hawkish nose, tried to shoo the goat out of the room while his brother, Dr. Devilish, continued to lament.
“I’ll have to spin a new pair from wool,” Dr. Devilish said. He was much larger than his older brother, with a jawline that could cut glass, and perfectly straight hair that was almost as dense as the head it sat on. He adjusted his beige cotton long johns. “I’m sure they won’t be nearly as formfitting—”
“Okay!” said Family Feudalism’s host, Terry Trebuchet, popping into the room in his green, purple, and gold jester’s outfit and jangly five-pointed bell hat. The goat turned and stared up at him with wide, unblinking eyes. “Are you two ready to overcome today’s challenge?”
“Scarcely a month ago,” said Dr. X, his eyes drifting upward, as though he were appealing to the heavens, “I was ready to overcome all of humanity. To sweep across the globe with my glorious robot army. To bring the continents and oceans into my domain, an empire to last ten thousand years …” His eyes grew misty.
Terry Trebuchet stared uneasily at the camera. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, with a nervous giggle.
Dr. Devilish clapped his brother on the back. “Don’t listen to him. You know how my poor, poor brother gets.” He pulled an expression of deep sadness. It was terribly unconvincing, but then, if he were a good actor, he wouldn’t be stuck on a ridiculous medieval-themed reality show with his ex–evil overlord brother.
Fisher, who was watching the show on his computer, pushed back from his desk. “This has to be the worst show I’ve ever seen,” he commented to his clone, Two.
Two was a perfect physical copy of Fisher—a small, skinny twelve-year-old boy with short brown hair. The only obvious difference between them was the number of freckles on their noses: Fisher had three, and Two had come up one short.
But considering Fisher had made Two himself in his own bedroom, that detail and Two’s left-handedness were pretty minor deviations.
“I just can’t believe it,” Two said. “Why doesn’t Devilish rat out Dr. X? He should be in jail, not on TV. It’s been barely a month since Dr. X tried to kill us all. I can’t imagine his brother’s forgiven him yet.” Two carefully inverted his new Onion Detector, which was about the size of a Q-tip. Two hated onions and had invented a tiny reader so that he could surreptitiously be sure there were no onions in his meals—especially if he was about to see Amanda, and breath was a concern. So far, the detector had successfully measured that there were, in fact, onions on Earth. It needed some fine-tuning to be more precise.
“At this point, I think Devilish’s career is all he cares about,” said Fisher. “Devilish saw an opportunity when Dr. X got deposed by Three. I bet you anything he blackmailed Dr. X into going on the show with him. Knowing Dr. Devilish, I’m sure he can set his personal feelings aside for popularity’s sake.” Fisher rolled his eyes. Back in Los Angeles, before their last confrontation with Dr. X and his terrifying creation, Three, Fisher and Two had spent plenty of time observing Dr. Devilish. They knew he would do almost anything for fame—including lie for years about scientific credentials. Fisher went on, “It’s weird seeing Dr. X like this. No fancy equipment. No fortress. No robots. Just a scared, little man.”
Fisher didn’t add that seeing Dr. X au naturel reminded him of the Harold Granger Fisher had once known—the middle school biology teacher who had been one of Fisher’s only friends.
Fisher pushed the thought out of his mind. Harold Granger had just been an act, a cover story. And so had Dr. X’s friendship.
“Speaking of scared,” Two said, his eyes still glued to the screen, “you seem a little jumpy yourself.”
November was upon them, and that meant it was the night of their school’s fall formal. All day, Fisher had felt as if his limbs were filled with a thousand angry hornets. “I’ve … never actually been to a dance,” he admitted.
“You’ll be fine,” Two said. “And if you aren’t, you can always hide out in the locker rooms while I have all the fun.”
“Gee, thanks,” Fisher said, nudging Two’s shoulder. They laughed, briefly awakening FP, whose head was inside an empty popcorn bucket. Fisher’s little pet pig stirred momentarily before his snoring resumed.
On the show, Terry led the way out of the hut, pointing to a small cart with solid wooden wheels next to a pair of donkeys.
“A crucial part of a medieval peasant’s life was taking harvested crops to the market town to sell,” Terry said. “To do that, they would use a cart, like this one. Your first challenge is simple. Work together to hitch the donkeys to the cart, then drive it to the wooden post at the other side of this field.”
The Grangers looked at the donkeys, at the cart, and at each other.
“You start,” they said at the same time.
/> “No, you start,” they said at the same time.
“I’m an intellectual titan!” Dr. X said. “I should be organizing the effort and you should provide the brute physical force I require!”
“I’m the TV celebrity!” said Dr. Devilish, planting his hands on his hips. “You should listen to what I say.”
“What you say??” Dr. X exclaimed. “You were a pretend TV scientist who did a hair gel commercial with a talking cartoon porpoise!”
“Don’t you bad-mouth Pasquale Porpoise,” said Dr. Devilish. “At least he never tried to kill me with robots.”
“Gentlemen!” said Terry. “Gentlemen! You’ve got five minutes. I think you should get to work, yes?”
The Grangers shot one more nasty look at each other, then stalked in silence toward the donkeys.
“Come here, you filthy Equus asinus …,” Dr. X muttered as he reached for a donkey’s head. In response, the donkey shot a hoof straight into his chest, sending him somersaulting backward through the mud. Dr. Devilish’s donkey scampered to the other side of the cart.
The Grangers spent most of the five-minute clock chasing the donkeys around in circles.
“That’s it!” Dr. X crowed at the top of his lungs. “I will not be subject to this humiliation any longer!” With that, he pulled a device from his pocket and pressed a button. The show’s microphones picked up a very faint, high-pitched hum.
Immediately, the donkeys stopped running.
And started dancing. And where donkeys are concerned, the place where running ends and “dancing” begins is a fine and fuzzy line. Before the timer had finished counting off five minutes, the Grangers were diving over a low post fence to get away from the donkey flamenco.
“I recognize that device!” said Fisher, over the sounds of shouting from both the brothers and the host. “I saw it being tested in TechX. On whales.”
“Yup. I watched those experiments,” added in CURTIS, the artificial intelligence residing in Fisher’s computer. CURTIS closed down the video window and immediately opened a new one that featured a simple face module of CURTIS’s own invention. It featured a series of slightly different smiley faces that shifted as he talked to communicate his feelings. Fisher had taken CURTIS out of TechX with him, and the AI had proven to understand human interaction better than he did.
Fisher still struggled to get the hang of most social skills that other kids seemed to possess innately. He found it difficult to deal with problems that didn’t involve multipart equations or electron transfer. But he was willing to face his fears now. He’d changed since he’d infiltrated TechX, the pyramid-like fortress that Dr. X had occupied in Palo Alto, to rescue his clone.
Facing such a challenge and near-certain doom had added a little steel to his backbone. And not, CURTIS had once said, because he succeeded, but because he’d been willing to risk failure. He was still scared of a lot of things, but he wasn’t paralyzed by them. He never would have attempted tracking down Two in Los Angeles if it hadn’t been for the TechX mission.
“It was supposed to make whales into programmable assassins,” CURTIS continued. “Instead, it taught them the waltz.” The face made a sort of smirk.
“I just can’t believe what’s happened to Dr. X,” said Fisher. “He’s one of the smartest and most devious people the world has ever known. And Three knocked him off his throne in a matter of days.”
Three was another clone made from Two’s DNA (which was, of course, also Fisher’s DNA). He had been manufactured by Dr. X to be a drone: a perfect killing machine. And although Fisher, Two, and Three all resembled one another physically, Three was a horribly distorted version of the two brothers—with no morals, scruples, or feelings, and a single driving desire: power. Dr. X had, for once in his life, miscalculated. He believed he could control Three. He had been proven wrong.
“He must have been planning a takeover from the start,” Two said grimly.
“I almost feel sorry for Dr. X,” Fisher said. Two shot him a look, and he repeated, “Almost.”
“Fisher?” came his mother’s voice as the door opened with no warning. Two dropped to the floor and rolled under the bed like the room had caught a hail of gunfire.
“Oh, hi, Mom!” he said, spinning in place and trying to look as normal and casual as possible.
“Just brought you up some clean laundry,” she said, setting down a laundry basket that ordinarily could walk up the stairs by itself, but had been malfunctioning lately. “Looking forward to the dance?”
“Yep,” Fisher said. But the reminder sent a twinge of fear through him. “Should be a great time.”
His mother smiled and walked out, closing the door behind her.
Two crawled out from under the bed and leaned against a wall. Instantly, Fisher could tell something was the matter. Two’s arms were crossed and he was scowling.
“Two?” said Fisher. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Two said, whipping around to face him. “Nothing at all. Why, you ask? Because the world doesn’t know I exist! So how could anything be wrong? No one knows I’m even real.”
“Two,” Fisher said cautiously, “we’ve talked about this.…”
“I’m tired of talking,” Two cut in. CURTIS’s dot eyes moved back and forth nervously between Two and Fisher. The face window closed to give them the illusion of privacy. “You promised me you’d tell the truth weeks ago.”
“I know,” Fisher said, sighing. “But I just … haven’t found the right time yet. Or the right way.”
“The right time,” Two grunted. “The right way.”
“It’s true,” Fisher said. “This is something we need to plan carefully.” CURTIS subtly opened the video window again as a preview for the next episode of Family Feudalism came on.
“I’m sorry, Fisher. I can’t quite make out what you’re saying,” Two said, stalking to the other side of the room. “All I’m hearing is bawwk, bawk, bawk, baaaawwwk.…”
“All right,” he said, collapsing onto his bed. “You’re right. I’m scared. But that’s not the reason we should wait.”
“Waiting isn’t helping us. Look, you said it yourself,” Two said, beginning to pace the small room. “Dr. X is one of the smartest and most evil people on Earth, and Three seized power from him in less than a month. Three’s more dangerous than even we imagined. He could be anywhere, planning anything, and he’s got all the resources Dr. X used to control. We need to get out there and find him!”
“I know, I know,” Fisher said. “And we will. Soon.” He looked at the clock. Almost 6 P.M. “For tonight, let’s just try and have a good time at the fall formal.”
“That’s another thing,” Two said. “You get to go to the formal in a tux while I have to wear that.” He pointed to a corner of the room, where a multicolored, feathered monster was propped against the wall. The suit had started its life as the Furious Badger, Wompalog Middle School’s old mascot. Two had converted it into a double-billed yellow-bellied bilious duck suit to protest the King of Hollywood restaurant’s invasion of the ducks’ habitat, and the duck had been adopted as the school’s new mascot.
“We made a deal,” Fisher said, standing up. “I’m the one that’s been going to school for the last three weeks—five, if you count the time you spent running around LA—while you were doing whatever you wanted to do. I go to school; I get to go to the formal as me. At least Amanda knows what’s going on. She’ll understand. I have to keep lying to Veronica.”
“You don’t have to,” Two said. “You could tell her about me. You could tell everyone.”
“Please let’s not get back into this,” Fisher said, rubbing his forehead.
Two looked at the DBYBBD costume and frowned. “Fine. But you’re the giant clown duck next time.”
“There won’t be a next time, Two,” Fisher said. “I promise.”
“Promises, promises,” Two muttered.
Fisher and Two brushed their teeth, combed their hair, and donned identical suits. Th
en Two sighed and climbed into the duck suit. While Fisher walked downstairs and out the front door, Two placed a remote-activated ladder out Fisher’s window and slunk around the back.
By the time FP stirred and woke, Two and Fisher were long gone. The little pig pulled his head out of the bucket and looked around, sniffing the air. Then, realizing there was a leftover unpopped kernel in the bucket, he spent the next hour trying to reach it before again passing out in exactly the same position Fisher and Two had left him.
If everyone does their part just right, a plan will work without a hitch. That’s why I call my sidekick the Hitch Factory.
—Vic Daring, Space Scoundrel, Issue #237
Wompalog’s gym was covered in balloons and painted papier-mâché decorations, reflecting the fall formal’s “theme.” The dance committee had hit a deadlock, with half the members in favor of one classic theme and half in favor of another. At the last minute, they had decided to compromise. So the theme of the fall formal was Arabian Nights Under the Sea.
There were stands of palm trees with long strips of kelp hanging from them. Spaced around the sides of the gym and on the dance floor were pieces made to look like piles of sand decorated with scorpions, cobras, and starfish. And hanging above the buffet tables were two camel-seahorse hybrids, like one might find in Mr. Bas’s lab.
Fisher and Two walked into the gym as it filled up, bass thudding through the floor. People cheered and pointed at the sight of the duck. Nobody noticed that its shoulders were slumped and its posture sullen.
Amanda Cantrell, in a dark green dress that showed off her toned shoulders, walked up to Fisher and Two, glanced at Fisher with something that was closer to a stab than a look, and took Two’s rubbery, feathered hand. They walked off into the growing crowd. She wasn’t pleased with Fisher’s choice of costume for Two, but she was never pleased with anything Fisher did, so he was used to it.
Fisher sometimes wondered if Amanda had a lingering distrust of him. When Two had first come to school, she’d developed quite a crush on him—believing that he was simply a new, improved, more confident Fisher.