by M. E. Castle
“Yeah … later.”
Fisher walked into English. As he’d expected, the other kids immediately averted their eyes and shrank away like he was trailing a cloud of frost. Sighing, he settled into a seat in the back row and removed a sheet of paper from his backpack. It was a map of Palo Alto, marked with a grid.
Careful analysis of the circuitry that Three had installed in the DBYBBD duck suit had yielded some samples of dust and dirt, which Fisher and Alex had carefully collected for analysis. When Mr. Bas had been looking for the best habitat in Palo Alto for the real double-billed yellow-bellied bilious duck, he had gotten dirt samples from locations all over the city. As soon as Fisher could compare the chemical makeup of the residue in the suit to his dad’s samples, he could find out where the duck suit had been rewired—and find Three.
His calculations assumed, of course, that Three was staying in one place. Maybe he was moving around. Or maybe he wasn’t even here. Maybe he was working from an island off the coast, in a stone fortress shaped like a skull.
He really didn’t know much about Three, but he knew enough not to rule anything out.
Fisher thought about Three’s flat, freezing eyes, and how close he and Two had come to disintegration at his hands. Why couldn’t the new clone have just quietly vanished? Made up a new name and glued on a big fake mustache and lived a nice, quiet life in the middle of South Dakota or something?
The night before, Fisher and Two had decided to e-mail their friend Agent Mason for help. The man Fisher had originally met as a sound tech named Henry had turned out to be with the FBI. He’d let Fisher and Two go after securing Dr. X’s AGH sample. Fisher knew they could trust him. But so far, Mason hadn’t written back.
In the meanwhile, Fisher and Two took another shot at modifying the DNA-based detector Fisher had originally developed to help him find Two in LA. But once again, the trial failed when they’d set the detector on the floor between them and it had spun like a propeller, pointing back and forth between them furiously, before beginning to smoke.
Class crawled by at the speed of an inchworm crossing the Sahara. Fisher’s attention drifted in and out, and the next two classes dragged on at a similar pace.
It was just before lunch when he spotted Veronica and hurried to catch up with her.
“Fisher,” she said tonelessly by way of a greeting.
“Veronica,” Fisher said. His pulse gunned to life after flowing like slush in a drainpipe all day. “Listen, I have to—”
“Save it,” she said. “I don’t want to hear it. I … I don’t know what to think of you anymore. I’m very disappointed and a little shocked. And I’d rather not talk to you for a while. At all. That’s it, I guess. Bye, Fisher.”
Fisher tried to say something, but all that came out was an anguished grunt. He felt like she had one end of his soul in her hand and it was slowly unspooling as she walked away, growing smaller and fainter. It was the only conversation he’d had today with someone other than his clone. Being ignored was starting to feel friendly by comparison.
The cafeteria buzz seemed to get quieter in a little bubble around Fisher. He got his food as quickly as he could and found the otherwise empty table where Alex was sitting.
“How’s it going?” Alex asked, as if he didn’t know.
“Not fast enough,” Fisher said.
“At least we have our … meat loaf?… to console us?” Alex answered, staring down quizzically at his lunch.
“I thought it was banana bread,” Fisher said, poking at the substance. “Hm. Maybe I’ll just stick with the baked potato. It’s pretty hard to mess those up. We all set here?”
“The materials are in place,” Alex said, tapping something beneath the table with his foot. “Now we just have to wait. How’s the baked potato?”
“I could use a pickax,” said Fisher.
“Mine may require dynamite,” said Alex.
As Fisher leaned over Alex’s lunch tray, his neck hairs began to stand up. He instantly recognized the familiar feeling of being loomed over.
He looked up … and up … and up, and saw three broad, flat faces staring grimly down at them, like a Mount Rushmore of Cro-Magnons. As always, Brody in the middle, Leroy and Willard on either side. The Vikings.
“Too bad about the formal,” said Brody.
“Too b-bad,” said Willard.
“You spoiled a big vocation,” said Leroy.
“Occasion,” said Brody, expression unchanging. There was nothing that could be done to salvage Leroy’s vocabulary. “And oh, look, there’s two Bases now.” He smiled a mouthful of gray, chipped teeth. Years of open-faced candy corn sandwiches on French toast had seen to that. “How fun.”
“So?” Fisher said. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Brody’s smile dropped faster than his grades. “You still think you’re a big shot, huh?” he said, leaning over the table. When Fisher and Alex failed to run away in terror, he frowned. “We’re gonna teach you a lesson! Now get up.”
“No,” Fisher said, taking a sip of his water. He was impressed that his hands were steady.
“What’d you just say?” Brody said, looming as large as he could.
“I’m sorry, that may have gone over your head,” said Alex, picking at his potato. “We’re researching a simpler word for no, but linguistics isn’t really our specialty. Please be patient.”
“Why you little …,” Brody said. “Flip the table!” he shouted to his fellow thugs.
The three Vikings took the edge of the table and heaved. The table didn’t move.
“Forgot to mention,” Fisher said, “we’ve been testing a fast-acting, extremely powerful adhesive. We used it to glue the table to the floor.”
Brody growled and tried to pull his arm back for a punch. But couldn’t.
“Oh, also,” said Alex, “we applied a liberal amount to the edge you just grabbed.”
The Vikings planted their feet and pulled as hard as they could, but even their tree stump–like physiques proved incapable of breaking the glue’s bond. All six of their hands were stuck fast.
“Unstick us, you d-despicable stick figures!” said Willard, thrashing from side to side.
“You know, there is one thing that can dissolve the glue,” Alex said, standing up and walking in a little circle around the trapped bullies.
“What?? What??” said Brody.
“Honey barbecue sauce,” said Fisher, getting up from his seat. “Remind me of the proportions you need, cousin?”
“You need a one-thousand-to-one-sauce-to-glue ratio,” Alex responded. “But I think we can make that work.”
Fisher and Alex hauled a drink cooler the size of a small chair out from under the table. Fisher popped off the top. Other kids had noticed what was going on, and the chatter got louder around them.
“Okay,” he said. “We can help you. But you have to ask nicely.”
“Fisher,” said Brody. “I’ll wring your tiny, little—”
“Oh man,” Alex said. “Did that sound nice to you, Fisher?”
“It didn’t even sound like asking, Alex,” Fisher said. By now the students nearby were pointing and giggling. Fisher and Alex started to walk away.
“Wait! Wait!” Brody said. “You gotta let us go!”
“You ever hear of the magic word, fellas?” said Alex. Brody gritted his teeth so hard, his back shook.
“Please,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Please do what, exactly?” Fisher said, tapping the cooler.
“Pleasepourbarbecuesauceonus,” he said, as fast as he could.
“Didn’t quite catch that,” Alex said, cupping one hand to his ear.
“Please pour barbecue sauce on us!!” Brody screamed in rage.
Everyone in the cafeteria was looking. Fisher and Alex hefted the heavy container and unleashed upon each Viking a gallon or so of the viscous, sweet-smelling condiment. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then a roar of cheers and laughter.
Fisher and Alex stood back as the Vikings’ hands slowly came unstuck. As soon as they were loose, the three towering statues of honey-barbecue goodness charged at the brothers. But Alex pulled something that looked like a normal ballpoint pen from his pocket and held it in the air, shaking his head in warning.
The Vikings stopped in their tracks, turned on their heels, and bolted.
“What is that?” Fisher said.
“Ballpoint pen,” said Alex. “But they don’t know that.” He grinned.
The laughing and cheering continued.
“Looks like we may have won back a few hearts,” Alex said, motioning around the cafeteria, where people were clapping and smiling. Even Gassy Greg let off an enormous, approving fart. Fisher noticed, however, that Veronica was still seated, arms tightly crossed, scowling.
“And earned a detention,” Fisher said as two teachers charged toward them. “Let’s make our exit while we can.”
They slipped out of the cafeteria and into a side alcove lined with lockers. They saw both teachers speed past them, heading in a totally different direction. Fisher sighed and leaned back against the lockers. He was glad they’d stood up to the Vikings. But getting into trouble was tiring.
“Good going.”
He looked up and saw Amanda. Her black hair was cut like a curtain across her forehead, and the tank top she was wearing showed off arms toned from the wrestling club.
“Amanda!” Alex cried out. Then he quickly tried to regain his composure, sweeping a hand through his hair. “I mean, um, hi. I mean, thank you.”
Amanda crossed her arms. “Either of you want to tell me what happened at the formal?”
“It’s Three,” Fisher said.
“That was his way of saying hello,” Alex said.
“Wow,” Amanda said. “I wonder how he says, ‘I don’t like you.’ ”
“So do we,” said Alex, giving Fisher a grave look. “So do we.”
I destroyed the robot fortress like you asked. There was nothing in the contract about how you wanted the planet the fortress was located on to end up.
—Vic Daring, Issue #452
Fisher stood in the lobby of the movie theatre at the Westbury Mall, wringing his hands together.
After school the day before, Alex had at last convinced Fisher to take a break from obsessing over Three’s whereabouts and deal with his other major problem: Veronica. He’d called her, and she’d agreed to listen to what he had to say—although for twenty minutes, she had not spoken a single word, and he was only sure that she hadn’t hung up because he could hear the sounds of her breathing.
He’d explained that his cousin Alex had been rude to her at the dance and had danced with Amanda Cantrell. He just prayed she’d believe it; Alex’s hair had not yet been dyed then. Then again, the gym had been dark. Finally, he’d heard a little sniff, which he took as a sign of encouragement.
So he’d plunged on. He told her the mascot had acted on its own, that afterward he’d discovered an automated system built into it, and that it had looked like something leftover from the Dr. X days. All of that was true. He wasn’t quite ready to tell anyone else about Three yet. Not before he knew where Three was hiding.
By then she was speaking in full sentences, and Fisher’s heart was floating somewhere in space.
Then he’d nervously, haltingly asked her to the movies after school the next day. She’d agreed.
So here he was. He’d arrived well in advance of their meeting time partly out of sheer nerves and partly because he’d been forced to bring FP along with him. His parents were out of the house and he didn’t trust the little pink tornado to be left alone.
Since as far as he knew, pigs were not allowed in the theatre, Fisher had rigged a disguise for him. FP was wearing a specially fitted garment that looked like an ordinary pet sweater. But a quick string pull reversed and expanded it, making FP look like a packaged loaf of pumpernickel bread. It was very realistic, especially in the tote bag Fisher was using to carry him.
There was also a compartment above FP’s head that could hold a cubic foot of snack foods for the always-hungry pig to eat. Fisher periodically snuck a handful of popcorn into it from the barrel-sized container he’d bought.
Fisher paced the lobby, sneaking FP food, and absent-mindedly watching the TV mounted in the corner, behind the refreshments stand. Then a report came on that caught his attention. It was about Family Feudalism, the Granger brothers’ show.
“Ratings for this fifteenth-century-themed reality program are topping the charts,” said the reporter, “but is it causing family members to truly ‘go medieval’ on one another? Reports show a dramatic increase in arguments and altercations within families that directly corresponds to Family Feudalism viewership. More after this.”
The report changed to something else and Fisher lost interest. It was probably just another one of those “scandals,” like how your morning coffee is slowly melting your rib cage. He had real problems to worry about.
His calculations hadn’t gotten him any closer to locating Three. And there’d been no word back from Special Agent Mason. Alex and Fisher had discussed it with Amanda, who had proven to be a valuable ally. She’d responded cryptically that she might know someone who could help. Fisher prayed that was true.
Finally, the door opened and Veronica walked in. She wasn’t exactly smiling, but she wasn’t frowning, either. There was a hope in her eyes that gave Fisher some hope of his own.
“Hi,” she said, alternating her gaze between Fisher and the floor.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Fisher said, and reached for his back pocket. “I’ve got something for you. Been working on it for weeks.”
“Really?” she said.
Fisher pulled a capsule about the size of an aspirin from his back pocket. The Rose Pill was a painstakingly researched project, involving complex genetic, biological, physiological, chemical, and engineering work. This would be its first field test. Veronica stared down at the tiny capsule, confused.
Fisher rubbed the pill between his palms, and then opened his hands again. The Rose Pill was activated by heat and friction.
It was just as he had planned.
What he hadn’t planned was how long the stems grew, and the fact that roots were emerging from their undersides. Fisher and Veronica jumped back as a rosebush the size of a maple tree sprouted up, its roots digging into the lobby’s carpet. It bloomed into dozens of roses and brushed the big room’s ceiling. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” a security guard said, making his way over to Fisher. “I’m afraid we don’t allow outside, uh, trees.…” His speech trailed off into quiet mumbles. Veronica stifled a giggle.
“I’ll tell you what,” Fisher said. “You can keep it and use it to decorate your lobby if I can just trim a few roses.”
“Uh,” the guard said, looking up at the huge plant. “Let me talk to the manager. I’ll just …” He walked away, still dazed, without finishing the sentence. Fisher pulled a multi-tool from his pocket and used the scissors part to clip four roses, which he handed to an amazed Veronica.
“One thing’s for sure, Fisher,” she said as she lifted a blossom to her nose, “you are a source of constant surprises.”
Two hours later, they walked out of I Can Tell a Lie, an alternate-history movie in which George Washington was really an Italian con man and the whole American Revolution was a masterful scam he plotted with the British to weaken the colonies. It was entertaining, if a bit of a stretch plot wise.
FP was asleep in his bread disguise, having gone through all the snacks Fisher could throw at him and passing out twenty minutes into the movie. Veronica was finally smiling. Back in the lobby, maintenance workers were putting a little fence and some benches around their newest decoration.
“Looks like your gardening project is a big hit,” Veronica said. “I’m hungry. Want to get a bite?”
“Watching this guy deplete the world�
��s popcorn reserves has given me an appetite,” Fisher said, nudging FP through the tote bag. “What do you feel like?”
“I feel indecisive,” Veronica said, scratching her cheek. “Food court?”
“Works for me,” said Fisher.
Voices ricocheted off the linoleum, amplified by the high ceilings. The Westbury Mall was large and full of light. Fountains sprayed colored water from steel-mounted jets. Fisher wasn’t much of a shopper, but while walking next to Veronica in the mall, he thought the Westbury might be his new favorite place.
Still, he couldn’t quite relax. It was so crowded. So many people … and Three could be anywhere. Fisher found himself checking to his left and right, and glancing over his shoulder with almost every step. He felt a lot like he had in LA, when government agents were on his tail. He’d only gotten out of that mess thanks to Agent Mason’s quick thinking.
As they got off the escalator on the mall’s second floor, they saw Alex walking in their direction, next to what appeared to be a massive plastic tub with legs.
“Oh, hey, Fisher! Hi, Veronica.” Alex said, coming up to them. His companion, it turned out, was not a walking plastic tub, but Amanda, who set down the heavy drum of protein powder she’d been carrying.
“Oh … Hi,” Veronica said, with a thin, brittle smile in Alex’s direction. The cousin-clone’s existence was something she was still getting used to, and the way he’d acted toward her in the dance probably still stung.
“Hey,” Fisher said. He nodded at Amanda. “You planning to eat that or bathe in it?”
“I have a wrestling match coming up,” she said. “Got to be sure I’m at peak strength.”
“We were just about to get a bite to eat,” Alex said. “You want to join us?”
“That’s okay,” Veronica said.
At the same time, Fisher said, “Sounds great!” Immediately, he felt like an idiot.
“How does the Rainforest Cafe sound to you two?” Alex said.
“All right,” Veronica said. She even managed to smile. “That’s my favorite restaurant.”