Replication

by Jill Williamson

  Dad ambled toward the kitchen and, as usual, evaded questions requiring specific answers. Though she was surprised he didn’t jump on the fact she knew where he worked. Was he even listening?

  “Did you make dinner?”

  It was always all about his needs. Did she do her homework? Pick up the mail? Make dinner? Do the laundry?

  Why wouldn’t he be open with her? She didn’t understand his secrecy. What could be so hush-hush about a barn? At George Washington U, before the incident, he’d taken her to the lab and showed her his work. She’d met his colleagues and ate barbecue at their homes on Saturdays. She wished he’d let her in now. The fact that he wouldn’t didn’t bode well.

  She stood up and walked to the island that separated the kitchen from the living room. “What do you do there, Dad?”

  “Abby …” His voice held a warning tone. He set his briefcase on the counter between them and met her eyes long enough to say, “It’s a private lab. They have the right to confidentiality. I signed several agreements stating I wouldn’t discuss my work with anyone.”

  “Not even your own daughter?”

  “Not even you.” He looked away. End of conversation.

  “You’re not doing something bad again, are you?”

  He opened the fridge. “Any leftovers?”

  She set her jaw to keep from saying something she’d regret. She was too tired for a text war, but stomped toward the stairs just to show him his answers were not acceptable. “Good-night, then.”

  He didn’t seem to catch on. “Night, Abby, honey.”

  In her bedroom, she burrowed under her purple comforter and closed her eyes. Seeing the barn that morning, and Dad’s secretive behavior, dug up all kinds of memories she’d been trying to suppress. Her mom’s death had devastated them both, but Abby’s parents hadn’t exactly been happily-ever-after. They’d never argued about normal things, like whose turn it was to take out the trash, or how to raise Abby, or money—well, that one wasn’t entirely true. Dad hated that Mom tithed at church, claiming she was throwing away his hard-earned salary. He never understood Mom’s relationship with God. That foundational difference led to the other, more passionate debate: Dad’s work.

  Dad had started out with a craving to save the world. That was what Mom had said she first loved about him. He wanted to find a cure for diabetes, cancer, AIDS, you name it. But Mom’s breast cancer diagnosis turned ambition into obsession. As the years went on—genius that he was—he found his way onto a Nobel Prize-nominated team that used embryonic stem cells of mice to modify genes. It wasn’t until some undercover reporter’s story made the front page of the Washington Times that Abby learned the truth.

  Dad’s team had also been experimenting with embryos and fetal tissue, trying to clone human cells and organs in the name of science, in the search for a cure for cancer. The lab had used anonymous human donors, but since federal funding for human cloning was illegal, and Dad was at a federally funded lab, the government shut them down. Dad was out of a job.

  All this went on while Mom was dying from cancer.

  So Mom and Dad had fought. Big time. Yelling and screaming on the way to a doctor’s appointment. Harsh whispers and evasion when Mom got back from a round of chemo. Mom called Dad a murderer. Dad called Mom a brainwashed fool.

  And Abby had spent a lot of time in her room reading Forensic Magazine.

  [CHAPTER FIVE]

  NINE DOCTORS WERE NOW ON the Farm. Before Dr. Goyer had come—and not counting Dr. Woman—Dr. Max had been Martyr’s favorite. Dr. Max taught math, as well as other subjects when the Jasons were younger. He was strict, as all the doctors were, but he made Martyr laugh. Plus, his skin fascinated Martyr. It was brown, like the dark gravy that sometimes came over mashed potatoes. Martyr had never seen anyone like him.

  Martyr sat in the math classroom waiting for the clock to switch from 2:59 to 3:00, when he could attempt to talk privately with Dr. Max. He’d never made a personal request from a doctor until yesterday, when he asked Dr. Goyer to watch over Baby and Hummer. Today he would ask Dr. Max for an even bigger favor.

  The clock buzzed. Three o’ clock. The door clicked, unlocked for the next five minutes by an automatic timer. The Jasons trailed up the aisle to place their math papers in the basket on Dr. Max’s desk, but Martyr stalled, slowly closing his book and writing his identification number at the top of his sheet. When he did stand, his vision spun and his stomach cramped. He gripped the back of his chair and waited for it to pass; the burn from Dr. Elliot’s EEZ had gone, but he was still nauseous and dizzy.

  Martyr again took his time, staying at the very back of the group. When he reached the desk, he placed his math problems in the basket and lingered. A glance over his shoulder revealed Hummer still holding open the door, a job he assigned himself daily.

  Martyr waved. “You go ahead, Hummer. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Hummer left and the door fell closed. Martyr turned back to Dr. Max’s desk.

  Dr. Max looked up from his paperwork. “Can I do something for you?”

  “I want to ask you a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  Dr. Max’s dialogue sometimes confused Martyr. He often spoke in slang, as Dr. Sautin, the language arts teacher, said. Dr. Max folded his hands and leaned forward, apparently waiting for Martyr to speak.

  “I expire in sixteen days.” Martyr hated the sound of those words. “I wonder, if you wouldn’t mind, maybe … do you think you could help to … I—”

  “Just spit it out, boy.”

  Martyr stared at the basket overflowing in all directions with math assignments. “I want to see the sky. Just a glimpse.” He glanced up, gauging the doctor’s reaction.

  Dr. Max’s forehead wrinkled. “Oh, Martyr, my man, I can’t do that. I’m sorry. I can sneak you in some fast food and all, maybe even a book with some colored pictures of the sky, but I can’t take you above ground.” Dr. Max’s black eyebrows scrunched together. “I—It’s not … well, it’s not safe.”

  “But I’ll be dead soon. Does it matter if I get infected?”

  “It might. Are you willing to risk your purpose? What if you get infected and it makes you unable to provide the antidote? Or you infect everyone down here?”

  “But the doctors go outside and you don’t infect us.”

  “But we take the antidote.”

  “Then give me the antidote, just enough for five minutes. One minute.” Martyr’s throat grew tight. He sucked in a sharp breath. “Please?”

  “Naw. There’s no way. You liked that chocolate ice cream I brought last year, didn’t you? I can bring you a half gallon tomorrow. You can eat the whole thing yourself.”

  Martyr’s eyes moistened, and Dr. Max’s face went out of focus. “Thank you.” He turned and jogged toward the door. His head tingled. Black spots swept across his eyes. He stumbled, crashed into a desk, and fell.

  Dr. Max was at his side in seconds. “Martyr, buddy, you okay?” He clutched Martyr’s arm and helped him stand.

  Marty jerked away, swallowed, and walked toward the door, careful not to move too fast.

  “Martyr,” Dr. Max called.

  Martyr pulled the door open and stepped into the hall. “Tomorrow, man,” Dr. Max yelled. “I’ll bring you some.”

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate his offer. Ice cream is very good,” Martyr told Dr. Goyer, swinging his foot against the side of the exam table. After Rolo dropped Martyr off, Dr. Goyer had removed the restraints, allowing Martyr to sit on the table like a real person. It was a very kind thing, to break the rules in such a way. “I shouldn’t have allowed myself to dream.”

  “Well, I apologize, Martyr, for putting the idea in your head.”

  “It’s not your fault, Dr. Goyer. I never expected to behave so foolishly at the end. I wanted to be brave.”

  “You’re being very brave, son.”

  Martyr cocked his head to the side. “Sun? The big star in the sky?”

  “Oh, no.
S-U-N, sun, is the big star in the sky. S-O-N, son, is kind of a nickname. It’s what people sometimes call their male children or other boys.”

  Some adults who lived outside had children who were not created the way Martyr had been. The doctors talked very little about this subject. Maybe Dr. Goyer would tell Martyr something he did not know if he asked the right questions. He may not be able to see the sky, but learning new things still thrilled him.

  “Tell me about your daughter. How did you come to own her?”

  Dr. Goyer chuckled. “I don’t think of it as owning her. I raise her, much in the way the doctors raise you. I teach her things, take care of her, love her.”

  “But she was not made?”

  “Well, of course she was made.”

  “How?”

  Dr. Goyer reddened. “Does it matter how?”

  “I want to know the difference.” All Martyr knew about how the Jasons were made was that they arrived as infants from the Gunnolf facility.

  “Let’s talk about something else as this is probably our last day together. It’s doubtful you’ll be assigned marks with me again since I’m not a teacher.”

  “You might not lead a class, but you are the best teacher, in my opinion, because you answer truthfully. Tell me what it’s like to live outside.”

  Dr. Goyer rubbed his face. “I’ll tell you as much as I can, but if I think it is going to break the rules, I’ll stop, okay?”

  Martyr nodded.

  Dr. Goyer began to tell Martyr of the sky and the birds and something called airplanes that flew through it, and the rainbows and clouds that sometimes appeared in it. He spoke of the land covered in green grass and trees and how a strange blowing, wind, made them dance, of the rivers that gurgled and lakes that sat still, the mountains that climbed to the sky and jagged canyons that cut into the earth. He spoke of seasons, where the same land looked different, how water drops from the sky called rain made the sky dark and flakes of ice called snow covered everything in a white blanket. Martyr soaked in every word, asking questions whenever Dr. Goyer paused for breath.

  The clock on Dr. Goyer’s desk buzzed at five o’ clock.

  Martyr asked another question, before Dr. Goyer could call Rolo to escort him downstairs. “Do you believe I will get infected if I went outside for one minute?”

  Dr. Goyer rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, I … I doubt it. But don’t go telling Dr. Kane I said that, or I’ll end up having marks with Dr. Elliot.”

  Martyr laughed. “You wouldn’t like that, trust me.”

  “Do you feel better today?”

  “Somewhat. I haven’t vomited, but I’m very dizzy, especially if I move too fast. I’ve fallen down twice so far.”

  “I’m sorry Dr. Elliot caused that.”

  “Yes.” Martyr pursed his lips, then figured he had nothing to lose by asking. “Dr. Goyer, would you take me outside?”

  Dr. Goyer sucked in a deep breath. “Martyr. I— No. I can’t.”

  It was no use. Martyr would not see sky before he expired. He should be thankful for Dr. Goyer’s talks and the ice cream Dr. Max would bring. It was more than some received.

  Martyr could not bear to look Dr. Goyer in the eyes, so his gaze fell to the doctor’s desk. Piles of papers cluttered the surface. Martyr had never seen such disorganization. His eyes stopped on a keycard sitting on the front corner. He chanced a glance at Dr. Goyer and noticed a tear dripping down the man’s cheek. Dr. Goyer removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  While he felt compassion for Dr. Goyer and wanted to comfort him in some way—and find out what was causing the doctor to cry—Martyr’s eyes shot back to the keycard. His mind whirred with possible scenarios to get the card without being caught. Even marks with Dr. Elliot would be worth it.

  Dr. Goyer pressed his intercom and spoke with a somewhat strained voice. “This is Dr. Goyer. Could you send Robert up?”

  “Sure thing, doctor.”

  “Let’s get you strapped back down before he gets here.” Dr. Goyer rose and walked to the exam table, stopping at Martyr’s side. “I enjoyed our time together, Martyr. I’m glad I got to know you.”

  Martyr did not like good-byes. Good-byes were forever. Dr. Woman. The J:1s and J:2s.

  Now it was his turn.

  Though he hated any kind of deceit, he could see no other option to get what he wanted. Closing his eyes, he remembered yesterday’s pain and willed it back. He groaned, gagged, and shook, trying to look convincing. He clamped a hand over his mouth and moaned.

  Dr. Goyer raced for the cupboard under the sink, crouched, and opened the door.

  Martyr slid off the table and snatched the keycard, tucking it into the waistband of his pants before jumping back on the exam table. He lay back and took deep breaths, heart pounding.

  The cupboard slammed and Dr. Goyer appeared at his side with the plastic tub. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” Martyr said. “Lying down helped.” His whole body trembled and burned—not from Dr. Elliott’s poison. From the lie.

  “You scared me half to death.” Dr. Goyer set the tub on his desk, then fastened the restraints.

  A wave of remorse seeped into Martyr’s heart. He hoped Dr. Goyer wouldn’t get into trouble because Martyr had taken his keycard. “Thank you, Dr. Goyer. You’ve been very kind.”

  “You’re welcome, son.”

  Martyr felt another stab of guilt race through him.

  The lab door flew open and Rolo entered. He removed the restraints and led Martyr out of Dr. Goyer’s lab.

  “Good-bye, Martyr,” Dr. Goyer called, voice raspy.

  “Good-bye.”

  Rolo led Martyr down the stairwell to level two and out into the hallway. He shoved Martyr’s shoulder, and the force knocked the keycard a little lower. “Get yourself to dinner.”

  Martyr walked carefully so that the keycard would not fall out of his waistband. He went to the cafeteria, plotting when he would make his move.

  Martyr looked down at the bumpy gray cardboard tray in his hands, searching for color. Tonight’s meal consisted of creamy pasta over chicken, along with cauliflower, a roll, and a small box of milk. He carried his tray across the cafeteria. Five white-and-black tables stretched across the open eating area, each seating a different section. Almost everything was white, black, or gray on the Farm.

  Tonight, Martyr hoped to see blue.

  The fifteen boys in Section Five were aged fourteen to seventeen. Their table was farthest away, near the wall of mirrors, where Baby was already seated.

  Martyr slid onto the bench beside Baby, trying to act as if nothing were different, despite the stolen keycard tucked into his waistband. The deception made him hot all over.

  He forced a big smile to Baby. “Hungry?”

  Baby stuffed a handful of cauliflower into his mouth. His blotchy cheeks puffed out, and he bobbed his unusually large head from side to side as he chewed.

  The bright lights hanging from the ceiling glared off Baby’s head. The sixteen-year-old J:4s had been groomed that morning, and Baby’s head and chin were clean-shaven, his nails clipped short, and he should smell fresh. Martyr wasn’t going to risk taking a whiff in case the groomers had cheated him of soap. Everyone knew Baby couldn’t complain.

  Martyr winced at the fresh bruise shading his friend’s neck. Iron Man could have killed Baby this morning if Martyr hadn’t found Johnson. And it would have been Martyr’s fault, just like last time.

  He had tried so hard to protect the ones who couldn’t protect themselves—but he’d be gone soon. Maybe tonight. He hoped Dr. Goyer would be able to keep Baby and the others safe.

  Fido darted forward and snatched the milk off Baby’s tray.

  Baby clutched his ears and wailed, rocking back and forth on the bench.

  Martyr jumped to his feet. “Put it back.”

  Fido’s tongue lolled out of his mouth. He panted while staring at Martyr with wild eyes, and reached for Baby’s bread.

  Martyr slid over t
he tabletop and grabbed Fido’s arm. “No.” He yanked the milk free and set it back on the tray.

  Fido growled and swiped for the milk again, but Martyr caught him by the wrist and squeezed, digging in with his fingernails, thankful J:3s weren’t groomed until Thursdays.

  “Fido!” Rolo lumbered between the tables and slapped his stick against his palm. His bulging body jiggled beneath his tight, gray uniform. “You causing trouble, boy?”

  Martyr quickly let go and sat down. He reached across the table and pulled his tray in front of him.

  Rolo smacked Fido’s knee with his stick. Fido wailed. “That’s right. Howl, you mongrel!” Rolo prodded Fido in the back. “Now, get back to your seat before I chain you to it.”

  Fido slunk away, glowering at Martyr as he settled at the end of the table. Martyr turned back to Baby, who had stifled his cry by sticking his thumb in his mouth, though he still rocked on the bench.

  Martyr patted his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gone now. Eat up.”

  Baby’s big brown eyes flickered to Martyr’s. He grinned around the thumb in his mouth.

  Baby would only be saved if he managed to get placed in Section One. But for tonight, Martyr would do all he could to please his friend. Who knew if he would even survive the toxic air to see Baby again?

  He shoveled the cauliflower off his tray and onto Baby’s.

  Baby grunted with glee.

  [CHAPTER SIX]

  ABBY AND KYLEE SAT AT the end of an empty table in the cafeteria. Kylee’s friends had yet to arrive. Abby eyed the pile of noodles on her tray, feeling like she should bag it for evidence. She looked up from the tomato and bean nightmare. “What’s this supposed to be?”

  “Sign said cowboy mac.” Kylee spit her wad of gum into a napkin and opened her milk carton. “So where do you live?”

  “On Alpine, right off Dawson Road, in the woods behind that Salmon Laundromat.”

  Kylee’s eyes lit up. “I don’t live that far from you. Think I could come over sometime to study? I could use help in calculus.”

  “Sure.” Abby fought the urge to squeal at the prospect of a friend. “My dad’s never home.”