Cloneward Bound

by M. E. Castle

  Fisher caught the very tired-looking pig in his arms.

  “Are you all right, boy?” Fisher asked. FP looked up and snorted at Fisher before nuzzling his chest. “You just don’t like to be left behind, do you?”

  Fisher carried FP back onto the bus. All the kids burst into a chorus of “aww” and “Let me see him! Let me see him!”

  Ms. Snapper looked down at FP, who looked back at her and snuffled piteously. She tentatively reached a hand down and scratched his head, and he made a low contented sound.

  “Well …” she said doubtfully, “I can’t imagine how he got up there, but we’re more than halfway to LA by now. As long as you can keep him under control, he can come along.”

  Fisher bit his lip to keep from saying that keeping FP under control was like trying to lasso an eel. He simply nodded and forced a smile, and carried FP back to Veronica’s seat. FP seemed to remember Veronica because as soon as Fisher sat down, the little pig tapped her with a front hoof and nuzzled his snout into her side.

  “Oh,” she said, smiling a bit forcedly. “Hi, FP.”

  “So,” Fisher said, wishing he had thought to use the CONVERSATIONAL TOPICS function on his watch before now.

  Before Fisher could get another word out, FP leapt out of his arms and into Veronica’s lap. She gave a surprised squeal as he began chewing her hair. Then he found her purse strap, which he obviously thought would be delicious. He clamped his mouth down around it like a dog with a bone.

  “FP!” Fisher said, trying to pry his pet off her bag. Veronica managed to remove the pig’s jaws, stifling a frustrated sigh.

  “Fisher, if it’s all right, I’d like to just listen to music for a while. Besides, you should go back to your seat before Ms. Snapper catches you.”

  Fisher smiled weakly, feeling his heart freeze into a solid ball and drop into his stomach with a splash.

  Fisher glanced out the window as he made his way back to his seat and did a triple take.

  The car—that same car—was still behind them and had pulled to the shoulder when the bus had stopped. Black as a crow in a tar pit and just as creepy. As the bus pulled back onto the highway, so did the car, careful to maintain its distance. Then a truck blocked Fisher’s line of sight for a moment and when it had passed, the car was gone.

  “So there you are,” said Amanda as Fisher inched as far down in his seat as he could. “Are you going to help me or what?”

  “How about this?” he mumbled, half to himself. “I’ll just go live in a cave somewhere and let Two be the only Fisher.”

  Amanda quirked an eyebrow as though considering it. Then she shook her head. “No way,” she said. “I’m not sneaking into some cave to bring you food. Come on, let’s focus.”

  FP curled up in Fisher’s lap and went to sleep. Fisher leaned back in his seat, wishing he could go to sleep, too—possibly forever.

  CHAPTER 5

  I made Two so I could use him to take attention away from me. It’s been sort of like using an anchor as a paperweight.

  —Fisher Bas, Extended Clone Log

  The bus was at last making its way into the outskirts of Los Angeles. Trevor, who suffered from intense motion sickness, had made two more hurried runs to the bathroom. Spitballs papered the bus like a newly fallen snow. The documentary was finally over.

  As they approached LA proper, the land, the air, and even the light seemed to change. A weird, faintly orange glow was pulsing out from the city like it was powered by ancient and terrible magic.

  “This place looks a lot bigger in person,” Amanda said, gaping out the window.

  Fisher could only nod, awestruck. The city stretched vastly alongside the massive highways, which crisscrossed the landscape like angry concrete fingers. FP struggled up and worked his way onto Amanda’s lap to get a better view. She didn’t seem to notice. The downtown loomed in the distance, skyscrapers clustering together like points on a crown.

  “We only have a couple days,” Amanda said, half in a daze. “Where do we even begin?”

  The black car had vanished. Fisher had tried to keep track of it during the trip, but he hadn’t spotted it out of any windows for almost two hours. Maybe it was gone.

  “Welcome to LA!” Ms. Snapper stood up, wobbling a bit. “The city of dreams!”

  Fisher felt a stony mass of doubt begin to pile onto his shoulders. The city was huge and sprawling, and contained millions of people—and he needed to find exactly one of them. At this point, there were only two things he could count on: Amanda’s relentless, single-minded determination, and Two’s ability to cause chaos and draw attention to himself.

  An hour later, the bus rolled to a stop next to a large complex of film lots. The studio buildings were huge, cement-walled monoliths, like giant warehouses set in the middle a perfectly laid grid of asphalt pathways. Everyone started babbling excitedly about the stars they might see, films that were in production, and whether any of the movies might need extras.

  “All right, everyone off, quickly and quietly. Form a line next to the bus,” Ms. Snapper said. The other chaperones, who had buried themselves in books and headphones during the trip, stood up. They counted heads and checked attendance as the kids filed off. Fisher carried FP off the bus, and set the little pig down at his heels.

  “Now you stay by me, okay, boy?” Fisher said sternly. FP looked up and blinked, looking like he hadn’t quite understood. “I have food for you if you do.” FP squealed happily and brushed up against Fisher’s leg. Fisher didn’t actually have any food for FP, since he hadn’t planned on FP’s presence, but he figured he could dig some up later. The only way to get his flying friend to behave was the promise of a treat.

  The class lined up by the bus, which had pulled up right next to a white-walled studio building. After a minute, a small door opened in its side and a tall, black-haired woman in a dark, sleek-fitting business suit emerged, a close-lipped smile on her face.

  “On behalf of Strange Science,” she said in a smooth voice, “I would like to welcome you to Los Angeles. My name is Lucy Fir, personal assistant to Dr. Devilish. I’ll be your guide today, and I’ll do my best to answer any questions you may have. Oh, look! Here comes the doctor himself.”

  Everyone turned to look. Dr. Devilish stepped out of the building, trailed by several staff members. He was even taller than he looked on TV, and just as good-looking, with slicked-back black hair and a thin, precisely trimmed goatee. His glaringly white teeth contrasted with his perfectly uniform almond-hued tan.

  Ms. Snapper turned to face him. Her smile was so large it seemed to be consuming her face.

  “Oh, Dr. Devilish!” she said, her voice quavering slightly. “We weren’t expecting to see you so soon. It’s a great pleasure … really, an honor, I mean.…” A reddish glow started at the base of her neck and quickly spread to her cheeks.

  “Hmm?” Dr. Devilish said with a start, as though seeing them for the first time. Then he flashed them a dazzling smile. “Oh, yes, the students. Welcome to the show! I’ll be with you in a little while. I just have some … catalysts to sequence. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Well, all right, I suppose.…” Ms. Snapper said, obviously crestfallen. “But we’ll see you soon. Very soon.” He didn’t seem to take much notice of the bright smile that she projected at him as he turned away. Amanda turned to Fisher and raised an eyebrow. He shrugged in response.

  Dr. Devilish headed for a group of trailers huddled together across the studio lot. Lucy turned to speak to one of his other assistants, and Amanda took the opportunity to break away from the group and catch up with Dr. Devilish, holding out a pen and her notebook. He looked down with a tired smile, and after exchanging a few words with Amanda, took the pen and scribbled a quick note.

  She rejoined the class as Ms. Fir began the tour and fell into step beside Fisher. Fisher caught a glimpse of Amanda’s open notebook, with the page that Dr. Devilish had written on. It said To Sandra, followed by an autograph in elaborate script wit
h the final h trailing off into a pointed tail.

  “Who’s Sandra?” Fisher said, raising an eyebrow.

  “He must have misheard me when I told him my name,” Amanda said dejectedly.

  The studios looked more or less identical from the outside: squat, gray, and very long. Lucy Fir led the class along a broad width of pavement between two studios. Technicians, production assistants, lighting and sound technicians, and other film workers hurried past them carrying equipment, papers, and coffee, or navigated the lots in small golf carts.

  “It’s amazing who you’ll see around here on an ordinary day,” Lucy said, walking confidently backward between the two studio buildings. “Actors, directors, legendary producers … Just one lot over is where Keel Me Now is being filmed, with Kevin Keels.… Oh!” Lucy laughed. “Speak of the devil. Or I should say—the hero.”

  The class had just rounded the corner of the building. There, in a denim jacket and mirrored sunglasses, standing all of five foot two, was Kevin Keels. A gaggle of assistants, bodyguards, and helpers swarmed around him.

  Instantly, the class went crazy.

  Everyone shouted, screamed, or shrieked at Keels as he strutted past them, and he waved to everyone with his usual casual confidence.

  Then something strange happened. When he saw Fisher, he paused, lowered his shades, and waved before walking on.

  The whole class fell abruptly into silence. Veronica was staring at Fisher with her mouth hanging open. Fisher tried to say something, but all that emerged was an errrrghhh sound.

  “All right, kids. Let’s keep the tour moving!” Lucy Fir gestured for the students to follow her.

  Fisher tried to ignore the fact that the other kids were still whispering and stealing glances at him.

  “Wow, Fisher,” Veronica whispered, gazing at him with newfound admiration. “Did Kevin Keels really just wave at you?”

  “Um … I think he was just, y’know, saying hello to the class.” Fisher pulled at his collar. Keels had looked directly at him when he waved. There was no doubt about it: he recognized Fisher. Or at least, he recognized Two. Two’s video must really be making the rounds.

  “It sure looked like it,” Veronica said, gazing after the pop singer like a trail of gold coins was falling out of his socks.

  He sighed. Fisher felt like his insides were trapped in a vortex of spiraling arctic wind. One thing was certain; the value of K was skyrocketing. At this rate, his first chance to kiss Veronica might be when their fossils were put on display.

  CHAPTER 6

  I see why they call them stars. Groups of smaller people orbit around them, and most of them are a lot harder to look at up close.

  —Two, Personal Journal

  Fisher’s brain was working furiously as Lucy Fir led the class toward the entrance to one of the studios. Kevin Keels—one of the most famous people in the world—had recognized him! It was incredible.

  And very, very bad.

  FP’s insistent snout-bumping was starting to make his ankle sore. “Yes, boy, I know you’re hungry,” Fisher whispered as FP began to gnaw on his sneaker. “As soon as we finish this tour I’ll find you something to eat, I promise.”

  “And now, we’ll have a look at the Strange Science set,” said Lucy, leading the class through the door.

  They passed inside the vast, white building, and there was a collective gasp as the students recognized the set of Strange Science and took in the dozens of cameras and boom mics littering the space.

  Production crew members hurried back and forth getting the set ready for the next episode’s taping. Camera crews were adjusting and calibrating their instruments, set workers were placing props and equipment, and they were all being followed around by assistants holding clipboards, calculators, and coffee cups big enough to double as hats.

  Set against one wall was the craft services table, a wide, foldout table with a spread of rolls, fruit, cold cuts, and a variety of snacks for the cast and crew. Small groups congregated around it, piling food on their plates and discussing filming and design decisions. FP started to veer toward the table like it was a giant electromagnet, and he had a horseshoe tied to his head. Fisher gently steered him away with little taps of his foot.

  “Not now, boy,” he said. “I’ll get you something in a minute.”

  “Over here is Dr. Devilish’s main worktable,” Ms. Fir went on, “which I’m sure you’ll recognize if you’ve seen the show.” The table was eight feet wide and made of shining chrome, equipped with a variety of apparatus, including two sinks, multiple clamps, air hoses, and built-in test-tube racks. Hanging above it on flexible metal arms were three ceiling-mounted microscopes.

  Fisher took a deep breath as he looked over the marvelous machinery. There was nothing quite like the sight of gleaming, cutting-edge apparatus to ease his mind and remind him of home.

  “Over here is Dr. Devilish’s personal barbatic-aesthetic automaton,” Ms. Fir said, pointing to a small machine sprouting several multi-jointed arms sitting on a tall stand.

  “His what?” said Ben Kraus, a tall, spindly boy with a spiked-up haircut.

  “His beard-trimming robot,” she clarified.

  Amanda was barely paying attention to the tour. Fisher, in spite of his fascination with Dr. Devilish and his show, found focusing on the tour difficult. He had a couple of days to find Two and as powerful as his mind was, he hadn’t come up with much of a coherent plan.

  “Hey, could somebody give me a hand with this boom? It’s got a loose clasp.”

  Fisher turned around.

  A technician with close-cropped blond hair was standing behind him, holding a long, black steel boom with a foam oval enclosing the microphone at its tip. The clasp securing its extendable section was broken.

  Fisher studied the boom for a second.

  “I have an idea,” he said.

  The man fiddled exasperatedly with the broken clasp, struggling to keep the extendable handle from slipping from his grasp. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Have you got a cloth or a rag on you?” Fisher asked.

  The man pulled a cleaning cloth out of his back pocket and passed it to Fisher with one hand.

  Fisher bent over and began to rub FP’s back with the cloth, which made FP promptly fall asleep. After a few moments, the last dregs of the highly adhesive hair gel in FP’s system were worked out of his skin, and Fisher stepped up to the boom, the cloth tacky in his hands.

  Fisher wrung the cloth around the extending joint, and in short order the joint was sealed up with the stuff. The technician tested it. His face broke into a grin.

  “Thanks for the help!” he said. “I do sound around here, and whatever else they can stick me with. My name’s Henry.” He extended his hand.

  “Fisher,” Fisher said as his hand was engulfed by Henry’s.

  “I’d be interested to hear about what exactly you just did. For now I’ve got to get to work, though. Thanks again!”

  Henry walked away, and Fisher smiled a bit to himself. It felt good to be appreciated for something small. It was a good middle ground between being completely ignored and being celebrated as a conquering hero.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tall man wearing a dark suit, watching Fisher with a severe look on his face. When he realized Fisher had seen him, he gave a friendly half smile and backed into a dark corner.

  Probably just an executive, Fisher thought.

  Probably.

  There was a tremendous, clattering crash, and thoughts of the man in the suit flew out of Fisher’s mind.

  “Hey!” a man shouted. “Who let this animal in here??”

  Oh, no. Too late, Fisher realized FP was gone.

  He turned around: the craft services table had been toppled by his determined and very hungry flying pig. Kaiser rolls rolled away in all directions, cheese slices lay haphazardly everywhere, gallons of water and lemonade seeped across the floor, and FP was wearing a cold-cut sombrero. From a distance, it looked
like a piece of turkey.

  “Will somebody get this pig out of here?” a red-faced production assistant was trying to mop up the spilled drinks.

  “I’m sorry,” Fisher said, hurrying forward, “I’m sorry, he’s just—”

  “Brilliant!” a trumpeting voice cut in. As Fisher scooped FP into his arms, he saw a tall woman wearing a bright green suit, and a pair of enormous sunglasses that made her look like an insect. Her teeth looked like they were made of imported marble and were polished every hour on the hour. “Kevin told me that you were here, Basley. I’m glad I caught you! I knew that you had enormous potential, but I had no idea you had an animal sidekick! Did you see how he swooped into the table leg? I swear, he actually flew!”

  “Uh …” Fisher said, looking around as he realized that everyone in the class was staring at him. Who was Basley?

  “Just imagine the possibilities!” the woman said, looking majestically into the distance, which in this case was a wall ten feet in front of her face.

  “The possibilities for what?” Fisher said, dreading the answer.

  “Commercials! Public service announcements! Maybe even a television series!” she proclaimed, walking up and scratching FP on the back as he ate the turkey off the top of his own head. “A pig with his talent could go far. Very, very far! I insist we have a meeting to discuss it!”

  “Well,” Fisher said, “I guess, uh …”

  “And maybe we can talk about your own career possibilities, Basley,” she said, giving a wink that Fisher could barely see under her titanic sunglasses. “I know that you’ve been in contact with that Lulu O’Lunney, but she can’t hold a candle to me. O’Lunney couldn’t agent her way out of a cardboard box! A potential star should be served by a star! My card.” She handed Fisher a business card that read in a giant, blocky font, GG MCGEE, and below that, AGENT OF STARS.

  “Um, okay, yeah, whatever,” Fisher said, desperate to end the conversation.

  “Perfect!” McGee said. “Bring him by tomorrow at three thirty, and we’ll talk.”