by M. E. Castle
“Tree-man?” Amanda wrinkled her nose. “What about him?”
Fisher slipped off the narrow pack on his back. “This is a prototype for my new model Shrub-in-a-Backpack. It’s a camouflage device. My last one was confiscated.”
“How?” Amanda said.
“I took it into TechX. It went off by accident, and I was captured.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t getting captured the opposite of the point of camouflage?”
“Well, I was dangling off a balcony at the time.…” Fisher said, then shook his head. “Anyway, this one doesn’t deploy yet, but we can still use it.” Fisher opened the bag up and pulled out two metal-and-plastic bundles, which he rapidly unfolded into close imitations of thick, leafy branches. “Okay, you take one and I’ll take one. We’re going to get as close to the tree-man as possible. Follow his movements. If we hurry we can sneak up behind him just before he walks past security.”
Amanda looked at the branch, then at the man in the tree suit, then at the security.
“Okay, let’s go,” she said with a sigh. Fisher could tell she wished she had a better idea.
The tree-man trundled forward, branches swaying back and forth. Fisher and Amanda crept up behind him and eased their branches into place. The large, leafy branch concealed Fisher entirely. He couldn’t see Amanda—or anything else, for that matter. All he could do was shuffle forward a little at a time, praying he and Amanda would remain invisible.
Every time the tree-man paused, Fisher’s breath stopped with him, terrified that someone had spotted him. Fisher tried to comfort himself with the idea that people had been concealing themselves behind trees for thousands of years. On the other hand, most trees didn’t walk or have to pass through security at a swanky Hollywood party.
Fisher recalled a recent Vic Daring comic, in which Vic had to hide himself among a forest of plants with venomous spines and a taste for the human spleen. So it could be worse.
It felt like a day had passed when the man finally got through security and pushed into the crowd flowing down toward the stage. Fisher broke away from the tree-man, re-collapsing his branch. Amanda handed him the other one.
“Good work.” She flashed him a rare smile, and Fisher was surprised to see how pretty she looked when she wasn’t scowling—or hitting him. With her smarts and looks, he was starting to understand how Two, someone that she didn’t frequently threaten to clobber, might have feelings for her.
“Thanks,” Fisher said. “Any sign of him?” He ducked under the felt tail of a man in an orange tyrannosaurus costume.
“Not yet,” Amanda said. “It’s too crowded. We should split up, find him faster. Let’s meet back here in fifteen minutes.”
“All right,” Fisher said. “I’ll go left.” He squirmed between a pair of astronauts and almost tripped on a pink-and-red-silk fairy wing.
The central area was being used as the dance floor, with the DJ against the back wall. Partygoers stood around the periphery of the dance floor, holding drinks and small plates of food. Fisher was glad that FP was back at the hotel. He’d be scrambling around in a frenzy with so much food everywhere.
Fisher was pushing his way toward the stage, when out of the corner of his eye he saw two tall men in black suits and dark sunglasses, wires trailing conspicuously from their ears. Alarms screamed in Fisher’s brain. He threw himself behind the robed legs of a partygoer dressed as a medieval friar. It was only when he stuck his head back around the monk’s costume, and saw the two “agents” remove their sunglasses to reveal the faces of actors Fisher recognized, that his lungs remembered to breathe.
Fisher straightened up and found that his head was spinning. The aftereffects of the hot, cramped ride in the taxi trunk, the stress, and the bustling crowd made Fisher feel dizzy. He spotted a plastic thermos with something dark green in it sitting on a chair and made for it. He gulped down half of the thick liquid in a few seconds. It soothed his dry throat, but it tasted like a bag of lawn mower clippings and powdered thornbush. Soon afterward, his stomach started roiling. He didn’t know what was in the weird smoothie, and unfortunately, his body didn’t seem to, either.
He saw a sign pointing the way to restrooms, and stumbled toward them, muttering apologies as he ricocheted between people like a pinball on a zigzag trajectory. He walked through one of the stage doors in the wings, down a short hallway, and found the bathroom on his left. He went into a stall, kneeling in front of the toilet and breathing heavily. After a minute or two, the whirlpool in his gut started to subside. He didn’t feel great, but he didn’t feel like everything he’d eaten for the past day was about to rapidly retrace its steps, either.
Another few minutes passed, and he felt recovered enough to resume the search. He was about to stand up and return to the party when the bathroom door banged open.
“I can’t keep doing this,” a boy was saying in a quavering, tearful tone. “Every week it gets harder to hide the truth. Sooner or later people will find out, and I’ll be laughed right out of my career.”
It took Fisher a second to place the voice: it was Kevin Keels! There was no doubt about it. Fisher stayed where he was, almost afraid to breathe.
“You’ll keep it up because that’s what you’re paid to do,” snarled the unmistakable voice of GG McGee. “You were handpicked to be the next teen sensation because you look like a Greek god and can smile for hours at a time. The fact that you once turned a car radio into a fireworks display just by singing along has nothing to do with it.”
Fisher’s sweat dried up, leaving him cold. Kevin Keels … was a fraud? Was nothing in this city real?
“You keep smiling,” GG McGee went on, “and mouthing the words to whatever popular slop you’re given, and I’ll keep the paychecks coming. Are we clear on that?”
“We’re clear,” Kevin replied in a sheepish voice. A moment later, Fisher heard the door slam again.
He quickly and quietly exited the stall. He couldn’t help but wonder what Veronica would think of the famous Kevin if she knew that he was a phony, but he had to focus on finding Two. He’d wasted enough time already.
He was pushing his way back toward the stage when he spotted Amanda leaning against the wall, her face bitter and angry. Fisher made his way over to her.
“I found him,” she said flatly.
“You did?” Fisher burst out. He looked around. “So where is he?”
“He’s not coming,” she said, her eyes flashing angrily. “He says that Hollywood is his home now. He told me that his life in Palo Alto is in the past, and he intends to keep it there.”
“Oh, no …” Fisher swallowed hard and raked a hand through his hair. “Come on—we have to try and reason with him!”
“Forget it,” Amanda said, her expression stony. “The deal is off, Fisher. You want him back, you can get him yourself.”
“But—” Fisher said, but didn’t get to protest anymore. Amanda pushed herself off the wall and then shoved him out of her way.
“I said forget it!” She stormed away through the crowd as Fisher stumbled backward, tripped over a folded-up chair and fell, arms flailing, straight into one of the buffet tables.
The thin legs of the buffet table buckled, and the end Fisher landed on collapsed. The table’s other end sprang up, launching a chocolate cupcake through the air like a five-hundred-calorie badminton birdie. The cupcake splattered into the back of a young man standing at the other end of the buffet, wearing a jungle explorer costume. He turned around in surprise, to see GG McGee, who raised her arms innocently.
Smirking, the man picked a small raspberry tart off the table next to him and flicked it right into McGee’s forehead. Flabbergasted, she retaliated with a cupful of lemonade to the man’s face. The fight escalated: more cupcakes, then pies, then full-sized cakes, and more people started to join in. Fisher decided to take the opportunity to slip away.
As he did, he noticed two other actors wearing special agent costumes—dark suit, dark s
unglasses, earpieces—a little ways off in the crowd. He started at the sight, then took a breath and reminded himself that he was safe. They were just actors, dressed in costume.
Weren’t they?
He turned around—and spotted another two people dressed as spies. They were moving resolutely toward him, and neither one was carrying a drink or a plate of food. Instead, they were shoving their way through the crowd.
The pounding of his veins was painful against the tight collar of his Spy Suit. He hurled himself into the thickest part of the crowd, crashing into cowboys and knights, werewolves and androids. Some of them leapt and shouted. Others were so big they didn’t even notice him.
He pushed through a forest of legs, sliding and squeezing through the narrowest spots he could find in the hope of losing his larger pursuers. A few hurried glances over his shoulder made it seem that they were falling behind.
Fisher kept barreling blindly in the direction he thought would lead him up and out of the Bowl. He pounded up the incline, as colorful costumes turned to blur around him. Finally, he crashed through the edge of the crowd and stumbled dizzily out of one of the entrances to the Hollywood Bowl. He ran, gasping, down the street, just as a bus pulled up. He frantically clambered up the two steps to the door as it opened and managed to sputter, “King … King of Holly … Hotel?” before gasping in another breath.
“Yeah, yeah, get in, kid,” said the short, gray-haired bus driver, chuckling to himself.
He fumbled in one of the emergency pockets of his Spy Suit, and miraculously found he had enough change for the fare.
He wondered briefly if he should have looked for Amanda, but shook the notion away. Amanda had a head start on him, and she wasn’t being pursued by spies. She’d proven herself very capable of just about anything. She probably could’ve jogged all the way back by now. Besides, Fisher had his and his clone’s lives to worry about.
On the way back to the hotel, he kept his head down and pulled his legs up into his stomach. He was all alone again. Whoever was after him was closing in on him, and his plan was spiraling out of control. If he didn’t find a way to grab Two and run, he’d end up somewhere in Nevada in a prison disguised as an abandoned barn. And Two could be reduced to a few thousand slides on a microscope.
What had happened between Two and Amanda that made her so upset? What could Fisher say to convince Two to come home now?
And if Two wouldn’t give up his new life … would Fisher be forced to give up his?
CHAPTER 13
I’d rather be around strangers who are curious about me than friends who don’t really care.
—Two, Personal Journal
The lights were blazing, the cameras were ready to roll, and the craft services table was still in one piece; it was a busy day on the bustling Strange Science set. Dr. Devilish stood very still as one of his patented “beard-bots” buzzed around him, its multiple arms whirring, neatly trimming his goatee. Little whisker bits flew into the air, forming a blurry dark cloud around him.
Amanda stood deliberately away from Fisher. He’d seen her briefly in the hallway when he’d returned the night before, but she’d gone on walking with a wallpaper-stripping scowl that made him keep his distance.
Once again, the class was watching from the risers behind the camera as assistants helped with the final setup of the lab. This episode was going to involve special guest participation, and so many of the kids excitedly chatted with one another and tried to gain the still-grooming Dr. Devilish’s attention in the hopes that they might be chosen as a volunteer.
This was it. The last day in LA. With suited agents closing in all around him and a renegade clone bent on superstardom. If he didn’t take decisive action today, if he didn’t find a way to pull himself out of the deep, dark hole that he’d dug himself into, it would cave in all around him.
He was so preoccupied, he’d even let FP wander away from him. The pig was probably finding something new to knock over or chew through already, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. There were two Fishers, but events were moving toward there being zero pretty soon.
He looked over at Amanda, who had deliberately chosen to sit as far away from Fisher as possible. He wanted to ask more about what, exactly, Two had said to her, but he wanted to plan his approach carefully. Amanda hadn’t spoken to him since the Hollywood Bowl, and he didn’t want to drive her off even more.
Veronica was huddled with her friends, chatting about Kevin Keels. Apparently, he was scheduled to make a guest appearance on an upcoming Strange Science episode. Fisher’s blood began to simmer. He wished he’d thought to record the conversation he’d overheard between Kevin and GG, but he’d been so shocked, he hadn’t even thought to whip out his pocket AV equipment.
Fisher scanned the room for FP and finally spotted him, trotting out from behind Dr. Devilish’s worktable. Close on his heels was Wally the Wombat, who had supposedly powered the lightbulb in the previous day’s experiment. They started what looked like some kind of game. FP would look back at Wally, then stretch out his forelegs a few times, before running forward and hopping into the air. Wally would then try to copy what he did.
Was FP trying to teach Wally how to fly?
Fisher shook his head, cracking a smile for the first time in what felt like forever. At least FP was enjoying LA.
“Ms. Snapper?” said Lucy Fir, walking up to the teacher. Fisher noticed she had retrieved her suit.
“Oh, Ms. Fir,” Ms. Snapper said with a flat smile. “What can I do for you?”
“On behalf of Strange Science, I’d like to thank you and your class for your visit and present you with this,” Lucy said, handing a framed, autographed eight by ten headshot of Dr. Devilish to Ms. Snapper.
“Oh my …” she said, taking the frame and gazing down at the picture within. Her expression lit up like a Christmas tree in a power surge. “He must feel awful that he missed our appointment. He’s trying to make amends!”
“I’m sorry?” said Lucy, looking puzzled.
“Never mind, Ms. Fir,” Ms. Snapper said, beaming. “Thank you very much.”
Lucy Fir walked away, still looking slightly confused, and Ms. Snapper stared adoringly at the picture.
The stage door burst open and in strode GG McGee. She wore a powder-blue suit. Her bright green one was likely away having a several-course meal steamed out of it. She carried Molly in a small, expensive-looking gold bag on her right shoulder.
“Please,” she said in a trumpeting voice to the nearest stagehand, “inform Dr. Devilish that I need a word with him regarding his Strange Science contract as soon as possible. There is a matter of some fine print that needs correcting.”
So Dr. Devilish was one of GG’s clients as well. No wonder she’d been hanging around the set.
To Fisher’s horror, GG spied him.
“Basley! What a lucky coincidence!” She clattered over to Fisher, almost knocking over a light technician. Maybe those sunglasses impaired her peripheral vision after all.
“Uh, yeah,” Fisher said. “I’m an admirer of Dr. Devilish’s work. I’m studying his show to see if I can incorporate some of his—er—talent into my own technique.”
“Splendid!” McGee replied. “Have you been thinking about the business matters we discussed at our meeting?”
Fisher felt his classmates’ eyes turn in his direction.
“Well,” he muttered, “I haven’t had too much time to think about it, but I’ll, uh, let you know when I’ve had a chance to speak to my … um, legal team.” Please go away, he thought. Please go away.
“Let me know,” McGee said, winking. “There’s plenty of work to be done if we want to make our little friend a star. I see a bright future for the both of you, and I want to seize every opportunity that comes to us.… Oh my!” She exclaimed suddenly. Then she brought her hands together to make a little square frame, through which she watched FP and Wally the Wombat as they played around. “Just look at that! The chemistry! The charac
ter balance! The cinematic potential!”
“I’m sorry?” Fisher said, looking at FP pushing Wally with his snout, trying to get him to leap higher.
“Those two look like they were born for a screen partnership. They could be the next Luke Skywalker and Han Solo.”
“If … Luke and Han were a pig and a wombat?” Fisher said.
“Exactly,” McGee said. “Now you understand.”
“I really don’t,” confessed Fisher, but GG ignored him.
With a series of high-pitched barks, McGee’s dog, Molly, hopped out of her bag and joined in the fun, chasing FP and Wally around in circles.
“Look!” GG said, pointing excitedly. “Now we have a Leia, too! Oh, I’m so proud of you, Mollykins!”
“Well, I’ll … give it some thought,” said Fisher. “It looks like the taping’s about to start.”
“Don’t take too long,” GG said, helping Fisher to herd the playing animals away from the set. “There are plenty of other flying pigs just waiting to take his place.” She checked her watch. “Well. It seems our friend Dr. Devilish is too busy at the moment to attend to these very important matters,” she said in an irritated tone. “So I’m going to step outside and make a few business calls while I wait. I may just see about getting some work for our little friend!” She reached down to pat FP, whose chomping jaws narrowly missed her hand.
Strange Science was getting stranger every day. Dr. Devilish was assembling a heaping pile of plastic tubing and barrel-like chambers on his worktable for the second part of the “Fur Spots and Kilowatts” episode. The class sat restlessly on the audience risers, watching him work. Fisher took his place as Wally, Molly, and FP explored underneath the risers.
“It will take a few moments to finish setting up the equipment,” Dr. Devilish trumpeted cheerily.
“Do you need any help?” Ms. Snapper asked, sidling up to his table. “I’d be happy to provide you with any assistance you need.” She batted her eyelids so fast, it looked like she was trying to create air currents with them.