Replication (7 page)

With each lurch Martyr slid forward, and his head struck the metal wall of the pocket. The repeated bouncing banged his limbs against the rigid surface. Just as he felt he could take no more, the car suddenly went very fast and smooth. Above him, black tree branches reached toward a lighter black background full of tiny lights like those on the keycard box, but very far away, and not
green or red, just white. Martyr reached up a hand. Yes. They were very, very far away.

Why wasn’t the sky blue? Could it be because of the toxic air? Martyr stopped breathing a moment, then sucked in a short, icy breath. The cold air entered his nostrils and burned slightly. Something was wrong. If the air was toxic, shouldn’t he be having some difficulties breathing? If Martyr’s blood carried the cure, perhaps he would be immune. But Dr. Elliot had implied Martyr might already carry a disease. If so, could he infect others?

He shivered and hoped Dr. Goyer would not be angry once the car stopped.

W
HO KNEW
JD K
ANE COULD COOK?

Abby promised herself this interesting fact would not alter her feelings toward him, but the fact that he volunteered to cut the onions—and diced them like a sous chef—carried more weight than she liked to admit. She loved cooked onions, but raw ones were lethal on her eyes.

JD diced on the cutting board.
Chop, chop, chop
. The conversation had been pleasantly surprising, centering on genetic disease before drifting to treatments and how everything could relate to their assignment. Now they were talking about research and cures. JD actually knew more than most about science. Against her will, her respect for Mr. Full-of-Himself had taken a major upturn.

Poor Kylee added little to the conversation, her furrowed eyebrows proof the subject matter was not one of her interests.

JD dumped the onions, peas, and carrots into a frying pan of heated olive oil. A hiss of steam rose up around his face. “Yeah. But clinical trials are essential to developing drugs. If the laws weren’t so strict against human testing, we’d have cures by now.”

Human testing? Abby should have known more cons were lurking below the surface. This was worth two strikes on JD’s already con-heavy list. “Um, those are good laws, JD.”

JD stirred the sautéing veggies. “Whatever.”

An eerie déjà vu moment flashed over Abby. This was her mom and dad’s late-night arguments all over again. What was that saying about girls choosing guys like their dads?

Not in a million years.

Abby took a deep breath. JD would not win this debate; she knew her stuff. “Pharmaceutical companies sometimes go too far. Most have no code of ethics when it comes to dollar signs. Do you know what happened with testing on prisoners?”

JD popped a slice of carrot into his mouth. “Doesn’t matter. They were volunteers.”

“It was abuse. Inmates earned ten times more as human guinea pigs than they ever earned from whatever prison jobs were available. Those who did agree may have been mentally ill or addicted to drugs, and some were probably too illiterate to read what they were agreeing to. Plus, they were offered the worst types of testing. Sensory deprivation, chemical treatments, psycho surgeries—”

“You don’t know that’s fact. Besides, it’s their bodies.” JD dumped in the rice and stirred. “If they wanted to donate their bodies for science, I say, good for them. It’s a noble cause.”

The food smelled fabulous, but Abby was too annoyed to savor the aroma. “It’s
insane
. People were warped for life after some of that stuff. I agree that certain amounts of human testing are necessary, but only after the results on animals prove it’s safe. The laws the FDA set up are to protect people.”

“You think they should test on animals?” Kylee’s voice took on a high-pitched squeakiness.

JD cracked an egg into a glass bowl. “That’s what they’re here for.”

“You know what …” Abby should never have let JD into her house. She’d already marked him as trouble. What had she been thinking letting him worm his way inside for a second chance? Being an animal lover herself, she smiled at Kylee and tried to word things more sweetly. “Testing on animals saves human lives. Virtually every medical achievement of the twentieth century relied on the use of animals in some way.”

Kylee smacked her gum. “That is
so
mean.”

“Uh,” JD said in a nasty tone, “cancer is mean.”

Kylee asked, “Why can’t they find cures without testing on animals?”

“They can,” JD said. “If the FDA would ease up. They’ve got such strict rules on testing these days. It needs to change, or we’ll never cure anything.”

Abby fumed. “You think it’s right to harm one person to cure another? If a healthy person gets sick trying to help, then you’re only making more people sick.”

JD rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Which is why embryonic stem cell research is so perfect. But there are lots of people against that too. Mostly religious types.”

Abby set her jaw. An inner heat cascaded over her. “Embryonic stem cell research is testing on humans, JD. It’s the same thing. That’s why people are against it. Human beings are not guinea pigs.”

“Um … it’s cells in a petri dish, Abby. Last time I checked, embryos don’t need to eat, sleep, or use the john.”

“An embryo is alive from the moment the sperm fertilizes the ovum. It’s called conception.”

His mouth twitched. “So you say, religious type.”

“Are you trying to insult me by calling me religious?”

He lifted his hands, then had the audacity to wink.

Abby jerked the spatula from his hand and pushed him away from her fried rice. “You think this is funny? I suppose you think we should destroy life to prolong life? That concern for the people
on earth inflicted with diseases demands we sacrifice the lives of those waiting to be born?”

“Abby,” Kylee said. “These are really cool stools. I like the cushions.”

JD mumbled, “Girls.”

Abby raised her voice. “
Excuse
me?”

“You think you’re so smart. You’re just emotional. Oh, poor little micey wicey. Poor little cells.”

Abby’s jaw lowered in slow motion, like a drawbridge.

JD smirked and motioned to the frying pan. “You need to add the egg now, or are you afraid it’s alive too?”

Abby dumped the egg into the pan and vented her frustration by stirring the mixture. What a surprise to discover that JD was more than a self-centered wonder jock—he was also a chauvinist and a liberal extremist.

What a waste of a stunning male specimen.

Kylee’s small voice rose over the stirring and sizzling. “So, Abby. Would you mind going over this logarithm with me? I’m having a really hard time understanding the whole base of a positive number thing.”

Thank goodness for Kylee. Eternally grateful for the change of subject, Abby switched off the burner and opened the cupboard. “You bet. Get your book while I dish this up.”

“You need to put the soy sauce in it first,” JD said.

Abby thrust the spatula against his chest and went to the cabinet to get plates. As much as she enjoyed this lupus assignment, she couldn’t wait until it was over and she would have no more reason to mix company with JD Kane.

Dinner long gone, Abby and Kylee sat on the loveseat in the living room, working through an equation. JD slouched in Abby’s armchair, reading the genetic diseases book.

The front door whooshed open. “Abby, honey? What’s going
on here? I can’t pull into the driveway.” Dad slowed to a stop, his eyes fixed on JD.

Chilled air drifted over to Abby. Dad had left the door open. She watched as he dropped his briefcase on the floor, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, eyes boring into JD like lasers.

Uh oh
.

Last March, Abby had gone on a group date to the movies. Afterward, everyone came back to Abby’s house to hang out. This had sparked the first and only fight between her parents on the subject of Abby and the opposite sex. She’d been careful not to let it come up again—her parents had enough problems without her adding to them.

Now Dad wore the same expression he had the night he found them all sitting in the backyard talking. His wild eyes flickered from face to face, his lips were drawn into a tight line, and his forehead was as wrinkled as a pug’s.

JD seemed to speak the silent language of territorial father. He jumped up and started across the room. “I should get home. I’ll see you tomorrow, Abby.”

“Yeah, bye.”

Abby’s eyes never left her dad’s smoldering ones. He looked like he might blow a gasket. She hoped he waited until everyone was gone.

He didn’t.

He shadowed JD to the door. It was a humorous sight; JD’s muscular body towered a foot above her dad’s plump one, but the odds didn’t deter her father. “What’s your name, son?”

“JD Kane.”

“Ah. Hmm.” Dad’s “Hmm” morphed into a moan, an odd sound somewhere between looking to answer a question and pain.

Abby jumped up and ran halfway to the door. “Dad? You okay?”

“I don’t allow boys in this house when I’m not home.” Dad’s voice came in a hoarse whisper. “Is that clear?”

JD gripped the knob and yanked the door open. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“Dad,” Abby said in her most soothing, round tone. “We were
just
studying.”

Dad waved a hand at Kylee. “You should go home too.”

Abby’s jaw dropped. “Dad!”

Eyes wide enough to show all the white, Kylee shut her calculus book, grabbed her purse, and stood.

“Kylee,” Abby said. “Thanks for coming over. Really. My hero.”

Kylee winked. “No problemo, girl. See you tomorrow.”

Abby chewed her thumbnail as she walked Kylee out. When both vehicles had left the driveway, Abby shut the front door and rounded on her dad. “I can’t believe you kicked out my friends!”

Dad hung up his coat and scarf. “I can’t believe you invited friends over without asking, especially JD Ka—a boy.”

“Asking? Who would I ask, Dad? It’s not like you’re ever home!”

Dad picked up his briefcase and started toward the kitchen. “You could have texted. I would have texted you back.”

Abby trailed behind him. “To say ‘no’? News flash, I have a life too, Dad. It’s not all about you. Maybe I
need
friends. Maybe I need to study with them outside of school. If you’re never home to
chaperone
, what should I do? Hire someone? A nanny, Dad, for a seventeen-year-old girl? Maybe I should homeschool myself. Then I could give myself assignments I already know. Easy As.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He set his briefcase on the counter and inspected the pan of half-eaten stirfry on the stove.

“You’re right. I’ll just sit in my room each night like a good daughter and come when you call me to dinner— Wait, I’m the one who makes dinner. In fact, I’m the one who does all the housework. Maybe you should go to your room!”

Dad spun around. “That’s enough.”

“Whatever!”

Abby stomped upstairs to her room and slammed the door. She flopped onto her bed, and when she saw JD Kane crouched in the corner, she screamed.

“W
HAT ARE YOU DOING
, you idiot?” the daughter whispered. She jumped off the bed and propped her hands on her hips. “You can’t be in my room. My dad will call the cops. Do you have a death wish?”

Martyr fell to the soft floor and curled into a ball. His heart thudded in his chest. Certainly he had done something very bad and would be punished. Did daughters give marks?

“What are you …? Get up.” The daughter nudged him in the back.

He would not get up so she could strike him. Martyr knew that trick—it was one of Rolo’s favorites. Besides, he liked this floor
with the soft, warm fibers that cushioned his body. It was safer to stay in a ball and see what she decided to do next.

A moment of silence passed, and he slowly peeked out between his elbows to see her puzzled expression. Her hair practically glowed; the reddish orange color was so vibrant. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

“What are you wearing?” she asked. “And what did you do to your hair?
JD!
Your hair is your best feature.”

Something sang on the daughter, a noisy, metallic rhythm. Martyr scrambled to a sitting position and backed against the wall, afraid of the strange sound. Was it some kind of alarm?

The daughter stood up and removed a small, red device from her pocket. She held it to her ear. “Hello?”

Martyr frowned as he watched her, puzzled by the strange device and her reaction to it.

“Don’t be stupid. Who is this?” Her thin eyebrows sank low over her pea-green eyes. “It is
not
… Because I’m looking at you right now … You
shaved
your head. Is it a wig?” She leaned closer, peering at Martyr’s head. “How are you doing this?”

The daughter reached a hand towards Martyr, but a loud honk outside caused her to jerk her hand back. She went to the wall, peeked through the strips of metal that hung there, and looked out a window. “What in the world?”

She tossed the device onto the bed. “Stay here.” She pointed a finger at Martyr, who pressed back into the corner again. The daughter opened the door and went out, slamming the door behind her.

Maybe I should leave
. This might be his only chance to get away. But it was so warm and colorful inside the daughter’s cell. He was thankful Dr. Goyer had left the door open when he had yelled at his daughter. Martyr rubbed his cold feet, which had finally started to thaw. It was so much warmer inside the facility than out in the icy darkness.

Martyr did not want to go back to Jason Farms. He did not want to expire. He did not want Dr. Kane to take his kidneys. It was selfish to run away—and he hadn’t intended to. If he never
went back to the Farm, how many people who lived outside would not get an antidote? Would he still expire when he became eighteen? What would happen to Baby?

Martyr crawled to the bed and tapped the red device with one finger. It was hard and smooth and did not make noise for him. He looked around the daughter’s cell. He couldn’t name the color, but almost everything was the same shade, similar to gray but more pleasant. A huge picture hung on the door of a man with frizzy white hair and a thick mustache. Martyr stepped closer to read the words.

E=MC
²

The door burst open, and the daughter closed it quickly behind her. Martyr scurried back to the corner and crouched low. The daughter leaned against the picture of the man for a long moment before turning to look at Martyr. She stepped toward him and squatted down to his level. She was holding something in her arms. A white and hairy animal. A dog?

“Who
are
you?” Her intense eyes trained on his.

Martyr suddenly grew very hot, saliva filling his mouth. The dog squirmed. Its round eyes met his and he noticed they were the same color as the daughter’s: green. Martyr swallowed and said in a near whisper, “I am Martyr. J:3:3.”

Her sculpted eyebrows sank over her eyes. Martyr focused on the sprinkle of tiny dots on the top of her cheeks and nose, dots the same color as her hair.

“What kind of name is that?” she asked.

Her question knotted his thoughts. His identification was not acceptable? “It’s what I’m called.”

“Where do you live?”

“The Farm.”

“What farm?”

“Jason Farms.”

The daughter sucked in a sharp breath. “No. That’s not possible. How did you get in this house?”

“I rode in the pocket of Dr. Goyer’s car.”

“Doctor? In the back of the Silverado?”

What was a Silverado? “I-I do not know.”

“Just how do you know my dad?”

“Dr. Goyer works at the Farm. I met him the day he wore his orange necktie. I touched it.”

The daughter wrinkled her lips. Martyr must have said something incorrect. Perhaps neckties were forbidden in this facility too.

She took a deep breath and exhaled. “How did you get to the Farm?”

Martyr cocked his head to the side. He did not understand the question.

She asked another. “When did you first go there?”

“I have always lived on the Farm.”

“No!” The daughter jumped up and strode across the room. The dog leapt from her arms, arched its back in the air, then hopped onto the bed. When the daughter reached the door, she turned and strode back to face him.

Martyr shrank back into the corner. He had somehow upset her again. He did not want her to be upset. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are
you
sorry?”

“I angered you. I shouldn’t have ridden in the pocket of Dr. Goyer’s car and come into his facility, but the snow was freezing my feet. The door was open, and I wanted to get warm.”

Tears flooded the daughter’s eyes. She walked back to the door, leaned against it, and slid down against the picture of the frizzy-haired man until she sat on the floor, staring at Martyr, her eyes out of focus like Hummer’s.

“JD forgot his books and he had some homework due tomorrow, so he called …”

Martyr could not look away from the daughter’s face. It made his heart race. Round cheeks, creamy skin peppered with dots, glossy lips, and her hair—bright and wild, it swung soft and long and curly around her face when she moved. He wanted very badly to touch it.

Something pounded softly outside the door. The daughter scrambled to her knees and poked a button on the doorknob. She
stood and whispered, “Get over here. It’s my dad.” She lunged forward, grabbed his hand, and pulled. “Come on.”

Her touch inflicted a pleasant nausea. He was much taller than she was. The top of her head reached his chin. How was it she had such power over his senses?

“Abby, honey? Can I come in?” Dr. Goyer’s voice came from the other side of the door.

The daughter herded Martyr into a tiny closet filled with clothing. He stood in awe of so many colors and textures. She pushed the door shut, closing him in darkness, but the door swung slowly back open, letting in a stripe of light. Martyr could see the daughter scramble to her bed and find the noisy red device. She opened it and began to push on it with her thumbs.

Something pounded on the door again, the doorknob rattled, and Dr. Goyer said, “Honey, open the door. We need to talk.”

The daughter opened her mouth like she was about to respond, but instead started pushing buttons on her red device again.

Dr. Goyer’s voice carried from outside the room. “Because I said so.”

She pushed more buttons.

“That wasn’t a fortune cookie answer! Listen, I know I’m gone a lot, but that doesn’t mean you can do whatever you like.”

The daughter rolled her eyes, and began hitting buttons again.

“True,” Dr. Goyer said, even though the daughter hadn’t spoken, “but you’re not old enough to have a boyfriend over without supervision either.”

The daughter gasped. “He’s
not
my boyfriend!” she yelled. “We’re doing a project together. And he invited himself over!”

Dr. Goyer’s voice softened. “What’s the project?”

She heaved a sigh and began pushing buttons on the device again.

“I
do
care,” Dr. Goyer said. “Tell me more about it.”

The daughter ignored him and kept on hitting buttons. Martyr was amazed. Clearly she was communicating to Dr. Goyer through that thing in her hands. He wanted to see how it worked.

“Sounds interesting,” Dr. Goyer said slowly, “but why lupus?
And is there any way for you to get a different partner? Perhaps a female? I would feel better about it.”

The daughter looked like she had just received an injection of EEZ. “I chose lupus, Dad!” She threw the device on the bed and flopped down. “If you care that much about keeping me away from boys, maybe you should go down to the school and talk to the principal.” She snorted. “But guess what, Dad? The principal is JD’s mom. So that should go over really well.”

It was quiet for a moment, and Martyr wondered if Dr. Goyer had left. But then he heard Dr. Goyer clear his throat and say, “Abby, honey, I’m sure JD is not a bad kid. I just—his being in the house surprised me.”

The daughter sighed and grabbed the device off the bed, causing the dog to dart out of the way and settle near the wall. She communicated one more time, and Dr. Goyer said, “Okay, honey. Come downstairs when you’re ready.”

The daughter sank onto the edge of her bed and dropped the device beside her. She sat quiet and still, pet her dog, then turned her head slowly toward where Martyr stood in the closet. The angry expression on her face sent Martyr stepping back until colorful fabrics fell over his head. He crouched onto the floor to escape them, and when he looked back out the door, the daughter stood right above him.

She held out her hand. He leaned forward to look, but there was nothing in it. Her fingernails were long and glossy red except for one jagged thumbnail. He reached a finger out to touch one and found it smooth. Her lips twisted a bit. She took his hand in her small, warm one, and drew him back into her cell.

Again her touch wiped away all reasonable thought. Martyr’s hand began to shake. He dragged in a long, deep breath and stumbled after her.

“Sit there.” She pointed to the edge of her bed, climbed onto the other end, took the pillow in her lap, and sat against the white wooden bars by the wall.

The dog got up and moved to her side—settling into a ball of
white fluff beside her. It closed its eyes and a gentle noise came from it, like the hum of a furnace.

For a while the daughter did nothing but watch Martyr, so he stared back. A strange tension bound them somehow, like an invisible string from her eyes to his. Like when she had touched him, her attention mesmerized him, spinning his stomach like a ceiling fan.

“My name is Abby.”

“Abby.” He felt taller just knowing her name.

“How old are you?” she asked, so calm and confident, like she spoke to Jasons every day.

She probably did.

“I am seventeen years, eleven months, and twelve days old.”

One of her eyebrows arched up, wrinkling part of her forehead. He grinned and tried to mimic her expression.

“That’s pretty accurate.” She scowled. “Stop that.”

He relaxed his face immediately and waited for her next words.

“You lived all those years on the Farm? Even as a baby?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you look like JD Kane?”

Dr. Kane? The question was so ridiculous, Martyr laughed. “Dr. Kane is in charge of the Farm. I don’t look like him.”

They sat silently again, looking into each other’s eyes. Martyr did not mind. He could look at Daughter Abby all day long.

She broke the silence. “What about your parents?”

“What are parents?”

She breathed out a laugh. “Are you for real?”

Martyr did not know what this question meant either.

“You know, a mom and a dad? Did they die? Are you an orphan?”

Ah. Mom and dad were slang for mother and father. Children who lived outside had these special adults to care for them. “Only children who live outside have mothers and fathers.”

“Everyone has a mother and a father—at some point, anyway.”

“We don’t.”

“We? How many, um … are there?”

“There are fifty-five of us.”

She sucked in a short breath. “Are you all boys?”

“Yes. There are no woman at the Farm.”

“Women.”

“
Women
.” Of course. Like
man
and
men
. Singular and plural. How obvious. Martyr’s face warmed at the simplicity of his mistake. She must think him ignorant.

But Daughter Abby only looked pale. Her next question came so softly, Martyr almost couldn’t hear it. “Then how were you born?”

He did not understand. “Born?”

“Produced. Made. Created.” Her voice rose with each word.

Martyr hoped she was not frightened. Did she think he would hurt her? He hoped his answers would bring her comfort. “We were created at the Gunnolf Lab and brought to Jason Farms as infants.”

She scowled again.

Martyr couldn’t help but copy her expression. This scowling look was by far his favorite Daughter Abby face, and mimicking her only made her scowl more.

“Why are you called Martyr?”

“Because I protect Baby and the other Brokens. My official identification is J:3:3.” He pushed up the right sleeve of the lab coat and turned his wrist over to show her the numbers inked into his skin.

Her eyes swelled. “What does that mean?”

“Product Jason: batch three: number three.”

Her eyebrows scrunched together like she was thinking very hard. “But you’re … normal. How could they have kept you hidden all this time? Why?”

“We’re created to save the world. That’s our purpose. The world is toxic and we are the cure.” According to Dr. Kane, the program at the Farm was famous, and the Jasons were worldwide heroes for their sacrifice. Why did Daughter Abby not know this already? “You haven’t heard of our sacrifice?”

“No, JD—Martyr. Is that what you want me to call you?”

“Martyr is my name, but you may call me whatever you like.”

She smirked and Martyr fought the urge to try this expression on his face as well. “Then I’ll call you Marty. It’s more of a normal name. Why do you think the world is toxic, Marty?”