Replication (9 page)

W
HEN
M
ARTYR WOKE THE NEXT MORNING,
Daughter Abby was gone and the door to her cell hung open. He sat up, and the sleeping bag sat up with him. He wiggled free from the stifling fabric and stood, wondering what to do. The sky was still dark, and Daughter Abby had not told him what to do when he woke up. The only thing he knew was he did not want to go back to the Farm.
Will Baby worry when I don’t show up for breakfast?

Martyr inched out the door. The facility was dark, but light glowed from the lower level. He stopped at the wooden railing and peeked over the ledge. Noises clunked and water sloshed somewhere below, but he saw no one. He wanted to call out to Daughter
Abby and see if she was the one making the noise. He simply wasn’t ready to meet Dr. Goyer yet.

A sudden odor met his nose. Someone was cooking food on level one.

Then he saw her. Daughter Abby passed under the ledge into the room with long, soft chairs and the high ceiling. She touched a long, flat monitor with her finger and walked back under the ledge, out of view. The monitor suddenly glowed bright and a voice spoke from it. Martyr crouched to the floor and peered between the bars.

“… mushers may push on this afternoon, preferring to take their twenty-four in Cripple. Live from Ophir, I’m Lisa Haberton.”

“Thank you, Lisa,” a man said. “And speaking of Cripple, nobody was more surprised than Kenai musher Roxi McAlpine to have won the Dorothy Page Halfway Award, which comes with three thousand dollars in gold nuggets. McAlpine, who was first into Cripple this morning, was excited about the accomplishment.”

“I had no idea I was even in the lead,” a high-pitched voice said. “That snowstorm threw me off a bit. I thought I’d overshot the trail. I was thinking about backtracking when I caught sight of it. Sure feels good to know I’m still in this thing. I’m real proud of my team.”

Martyr crept along the bars until he reached the stairs. The floor was covered in the same thick fibers as Daughter Abby’s floor, but instead of the purple shade, this was the color of pancakes. He liked the feel of it under his feet.

He sat on the top step and scooted over the ledge to the next one, holding on to the bars while keeping his eyes focused toward the talking monitor. It appeared to be speaking of huge dogs pulling people over the snow on pieces of wood. Martyr had only seen a few pictures of dogs years ago, and now the white, fluffy one Daughter Abby kept in her room. He hadn’t known dogs could be so big. He also hadn’t known people who lived outside used dogs for transportation. Martyr supposed it would keep them from having to walk on the cold snow, but wouldn’t a car be faster?

Martyr slid down the stairs one at a time until he reached the bottom. Then, keeping his back to the wall, he edged slowly toward
the kitchen. Daughter Abby darted around behind a tall counter covered in shiny, white tile. A billowing cloud of steam rose above her head. It smelled delicious. She had fastened her wild hair on top of her head and it poked up in a strange bubble. It was her dark red sweater, however, that made Martyr’s heart race.

He stopped at the end of the wall and hovered, trying to decide what to do. He swallowed and took three long steps to stand in front of the counter. It was taller than the ones in the labs and came up to his stomach.

He faced Daughter Abby’s back. She cracked an egg in a pan over a blue flame and tossed the shell into a trash can. Then she stirred something Martyr couldn’t see that was cooking in another pan. He sniffed in a long breath and immediately wanted to eat what she had created.

She turned slowly and jumped when she saw him. “Oh! You scared me!” She clapped her hand against her chest. Then she motioned him to a tall, round chair beside the counter. “Sit down. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, please.”

She grinned. “You’re so polite. You’d put all the boys at school to shame.” She turned back to the pan, filled a plate, and set it before him. Everything looked different. Instead of yellow eggs in a pile, these were smooth and white except for a round circle of yellow in the center. Some kind of brown meat shaped like large pills were also on the plate. The toast was rectangular instead of square, and Daughter Abby had cut it diagonally to form two triangles. There were also wedges of bright, wet fruit.

She set another plate next to his before coming around the counter to sit beside him. His heart pounded as he smelled her fragrance over the food. He couldn’t describe her smell. He blinked, trying to focus, but found it was impossible next to her.

“I usually pray before I eat. Would you like to pray with me?”

He craned his neck to look into her green eyes. They were so many more colors of green than plain peas. Dr. Goyer’s picture had not been a good representation.

She stared at him, waiting.

His cheeks warmed. She’d asked him something that he didn’t understand again. “Yes,” he said, hoping his answer would be the right one, that she wouldn’t think him ignorant.

She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Dear God, I thank you for this beautiful morning and this meal you’ve provided. Thank you for bringing Marty here and for creating him and letting me meet him. Show me how to help him, no matter what that might mean. Please keep him safe. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

Martyr cocked his head to the side, more confused than ever by her words. He glanced around the facility, but saw no one else. Who was she talking to?

She picked up a shiny metal fork and cut open her egg. The yellow circle bled over the tender white of the eggs. Martyr gasped and turned to his own plate. Would his eggs bleed too?

He picked up his fork and stabbed the circle, causing the dark liquid to ooze out of the small puncture holes. He glanced at Daughter Abby. She dipped her toast into the liquid. Martyr picked up his toast but did not eat.

“Who is God?”

Daughter Abby hummed and chewed. She held up a finger until she swallowed. “Uh, well, God is … um … He’s the creator … of everything.”

“Does he work at the Farm?”

She giggled. “Yes, but not how you mean. God isn’t a person like you or me or my dad, he’s a deity … wh-which is a … um … I’m not so good at explaining him, I guess. Basically, he made life, the earth, and everything in it. He made people and animals and trees and—”

“And you speak to him here, where he is not”—Martyr looked around the facility again to be certain they were alone—”and he hears you?”

“God hears every prayer. He knows everything that happens, even your thoughts.”

“How can he know my thoughts?”

“Because he’s omniscient.”

“What is—?”

“It means he has unlimited knowledge and understanding.”

“But how can he—?”

“Because he’s God.”

“You’re certain he made
me
?”

Daughter Abby frowned and took a bite of her toast. Martyr watched her chew and swallow before she spoke again. “I don’t know, Marty. I’ve always believed it was wrong to clo—” She cleared her throat. “Not that I’m positive you’re a clone.”

“I am a clone. The doctors say it sometimes. I’m not sure what it means.”

She set her fork down and dropped her face into her hands. “Of course they didn’t
explain
anything.” Her voice was muffled. “Clones are … well, they’re copies of people who already exist. And it’s wrong to clone people. It’s like playing God, but humans can’t create things as well as he can. We mess stuff up, even with the best intentions.” She lifted her face to look at him. “Didn’t you say there were …
Brokens
?”

“Yes.”

“How many Brokens, Marty?”

“Uh … officially four, but probably half of us have serious conditions. And the doctors call them Brokens too.”

“Half?” Her eyes glistened and her eyelashes fluttered. “What kind of broken?”

“Well, Baby is small, though he has a large head. He doesn’t speak with words, and he sucks his thumb. But he’s smart, unlike Hummer, who only hums and rocks and drools all the time. Also, Hummer’s face is a little crooked and his eyes are extra large. Several have misshapen appendages, like arms, a foot, or fingers or toes. Fido likes to pick on the Brokens, especially since many of them can’t run or fight back.” Martyr paused and remembered the little boy in the box. “One J:9 or 10 didn’t grow legs. They keep him in a glass box in Section One. He moans all the time, like Hummer, but I think he’s in pain where Hummer is not. He is one of the four.”

A tear ran down Daughter Abby’s cheek. Martyr reached up and brushed it away with the backs of his fingers. He did not mean to make her sad.

“Marty, doctors in a lab can’t give you a purpose—only God can do that. I know he has a plan for you, for your life. Maybe escaping was part of his plan. Maybe you and I can rescue the others.”

Rescue. As if their life at the Farm had been wrong in some way. As if they had been prisoners. The sudden realization turned his stomach. He was a copy. They all were. Copies of a real person. And the doctors had lied to them. Used them. Could they get away? Could they each have a new purpose? Could all the Jasons have a life like Daughter Abby’s? “I would like the purpose of freeing the others. How can I find out if this is God’s purpose for me?”

“Oh.” This time she scowled like she was thinking very hard. Suddenly she gasped and grabbed his wrist. “I know! I’ll take you to meet Kylee’s brother. He’s a youth pastor, so he’ll know what to do … I think. But first, Marty, I’ve got to go to school, which means you’ll have to stay here alone while I’m gone. You must stay inside the house. Don’t answer the door or the phone. If you hear someone coming, go back up to my room and hide in the closet. I made you another sandwich for lunch. It’s in the fridge.” She pointed at a large rectangular box with two white doors. “Eat anything you want. Just make sure the doors to the fridge close when you’re done or all the cold air will get out. The TV is on—I’ll show you how to change the channels.” She took his hand, led him to the picture monitor, and explained how to use a tiny device with buttons that made this
TV
change to different scenes.

“I’ll be back at about three twenty-five.” She pointed to a wooden clock taller than he was. “Can you tell time?”

He nodded.

She walked over by the door, opened a closet, and put on a puffy black coat. She removed the binding from her hair and pulled a black hat over her head, making her curly hair poof out around the edges of the hat. She stepped into a pair of black boots filled with white fur, then came to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and squeezed.

He tensed and flushed at her touch, but she quickly let go and said, “Be careful.”

Then she pulled on a pair of black gloves, heaved a black bag over her shoulder, and left.

Abby couldn’t concentrate on the drive to school. She shouldn’t have left Marty alone. What if he went outside? What if someone came and took him away and she couldn’t prove he existed? She could just see herself trying to convince the cops that Jason Farms had an underground cloning lab.

Jason Farms
.

She shuddered, figuring JD stood for Jason something. See? Crazy scientists did have egos.

But did JD know what his father did for a living? JD held some liberal views about scientific research, but that didn’t mean he knew about his father’s work. Another question nagged at her. Clearly Dr. Kane thought it would be a good idea to clone his son, but why? Wouldn’t seeing a mutilated version of your own son be heartbreaking? How could a parent do that?

And how could Abby’s dad be a part of it?

She wanted to text Dad and let him have it, but that would tip him off about where Marty was, and she didn’t want Marty to have to go back. The lab sounded horrible. No color? No socks? No hair? She could only imagine the extent of psychological abuse the clones had suffered at the hands of Dr. Kane. Toxic world … death at age eighteen? Purpose to expire? Not to mention physical abuse involving tasers and pharmaceutical testing. Unbelievable!

And completely twisted.

A thought sparked in her mind. She shivered, not liking where it led. A facility that cloned humans would have some level of security. They were bound to have surveillance cameras. Abby didn’t remember seeing any, but she hadn’t been looking. Maybe they didn’t have someone monitoring the feed 24/7, but when they discovered Marty was missing, they’d go back and look. They’d see her snooping around outside. They’d see Marty climb in the back of her dad’s truck.

And they’d come looking.

Abby had to find answers before then, and JD was the place to start.

She parked her car and entered the school, eyes peeled for that familiar to-die-for hair. She didn’t see JD until third period calculus.
He was sitting at his desk, his book open in front of him, studiously working on the problems Mrs. Volkman had left on the board.

He was so cute when he acted normal.

She needed to snoop around his house, see if his dad had a home office. If she could find something concrete, she could go to the cops. The trick was getting to JD’s house without encouraging any romantic notions. An idea formed as she made her way across the room; she’d play the assignment card. JD knew she was all about academia. In light of their major project, her request shouldn’t seem suspicious. She sank into the empty desk beside his and, having entered his proximity, held her breath.

JD looked up, a smile defeating his studious expression. “Hey, gorgeous.”

It was disturbing how identical JD’s and Marty’s faces were. Only Marty was well-mannered and shy, and didn’t reek like the cosmetics department at Walmart.

Oh, she hoped he stayed safe today.

Abby opened her notebook. “Could I come to your house this afternoon? I want to see what other books your dad has in his library that might help our project.”

“Anything for you.” She could hear the smile in his voice, the eagerness, the triumph. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot after sixth.”

“Perfect.”

She copied the first problem into her notebook, only she didn’t actually do the logarithm. Her mind dwelled on Marty. She glanced at the clock. 9:57. What was he doing right now? She hoped he was okay and wouldn’t freak out when she didn’t come home right at 3:25.