Pure Dead Wicked by Debi Gliori Page B

bathroom door. The combined snores of the surviving clones had an oddly soothing effect, not unlike the broody cluckings from a crowded henhouse.
    â€œThey’re really quite sweet,” whispered Titus.
    â€œOnly when they’re asleep. Euchhh, what an effort! I’m never going to have any babies ever ever ever.” Pandora pulled her brother out of the bathroom and closed the door behind him. “Right,” she said, “we have to do some research. The question is, how big will they grow, and how soon?”
    â€œThat’s two questions,” muttered Titus.
    â€œWhatever.” Pandora pointed to the de-goosed laptop. “Come on. You got us into this mess, now get us out of it.”
    Titus obediently logged on to WWW.DIY-CLONES.COM and began to type out an e-mail, hindered only slightly by Pandora breathing heavily as she read over his shoulder.
    [email protected]
Dear Helpdesk
    â€œThat’s not a proper name,” complained Pandora. “Honestly, Titus—dumb or what?”
    Titus rolled his eyes and re-typed:
    Dear Dumborwhat
We’ve followed yr. instructions and have grown c. 500 clones at 10%, draft (pink). They’re quite big now and are very hard to dissipline
    â€œI don’t think that’s how you—”
    â€œShut up, Pan. Do you want me to write this or not?” Titus typed on, doggedly paying no heed to the loud sighs coming from his sister.
    . . . and we’re wondering just how big are they going to get, and when will they finally stop (i.e. be adults)?
Yours sincerely
Titus A. Strega-Borgia (Mr.)
    â€œIs that
it
?” said Pandora. “What about: how do we get rid of them? Can we send them back? Or are we stuck with them for ever and ever?”
    â€œI’ll add on a bit at the end.” Titus’s fingers flew over the keys for a few minutes, then he exhaled noisily, slumped back in his seat, and waited for Pandora to approve his amendments before he pressed ENTER and sent the e-mail. Pandora peered at the screen. Titus had added:
    P . S . We’d be happy to send them back if you would send us your snail-mail address. Or if you would send us some other addresses that might be interested in c. 500 draft, 10% (pink) clones. We’d be very grateful. Or even any suggestions for how my sister and I are supposed to feed c. 500 mouths on our measly pocket-money allowance. Our parents would kill us if they knew. Yours sincerely (again) T. A. S-B.
    â€œYup. That’s good. I like the last bit,” Pandora approved. “Sort of conveys what deep poo we’re in. Maybe they’ll feel sorry for us. . . .”
    Titus pressed ENTER and sat back to wait. His outgoing e-mail crossed with an incoming one and he opened this, noting that it was dated December 25. Reminding himself that it was highly unlikely Santa Claus was on the Net, even if he
did
exist, Titus read on.
    â€œAnything interesting?” yawned Pandora, slumping backward onto Titus’s bed.
    â€œOh, NO,” Titus groaned. “Listen to this, Pan: ‘Congratulations. Diy-clones are happy to have assisted you with your groundbreaking discovery. We would like to take this opportunity to advise you that your clones, in common with all bio-engineered beings, will experience accelerated aging by a factor of eight thousand six hundred and forty. This means that one minute of real time equals a bioclonic increment of nearly a week.’ ”
    â€œUrrrgh. What? Why can’t they write this sort of stuff in English?” Pandora complained. “What does it all
mean
?”
    â€œ
I
don’t know.” Titus gazed blankly out of the window and frowned. “Out of interest, why are there clouds of black smoke billowing up from the car park?”
    â€œMaybe someone’s set their car on fire,” said Pandora. “Stop changing the subject. Go on. Read me some more gobbledegook.”
    Titus continued patiently: