Dr. Identity by D. Harlan Wilson Page A

Others were senile and psychotic.
    In addition to weapons and food, Littleoldladyville offered us new disguises. Our current disguises were necessary but unacceptable. We lacked facial hair and accoutrements, and the clothes were old, faded and unfashionable. Dr. Identity wouldn’t tolerate it for long. I could barely tolerate it.
    Littleoldladyville also featured scores of surgery booths where we could have our faces reconstructed by a skilled Babetta. Facelifts were something to consider, but ultimately we didn’t need them. If we managed to evade the Law for long enough, eventually the thrill of the hunt would wear off and the government would set its DNA hounds on our tails. No matter where we fled, we would be sniffed out. First we had to concentrate on camouflaging ourselves with en vogue body armor and stocking up on our present arsenal of weapons, which now consisted solely of Dr. Identity’s appendages. The android was clearly an able-bodied killer. But going into Littleoldladyville amounted to going to war. And we lacked both the means and the intention to pay for our share of the battle.
    We activated our jetpacks and ascended into the dark, contorted spiral of strip malls above us. Dr. Identity took the lead. I followed him through a web of flyways, shielding my face with my collar, dodging traffic, and trying not to focus on the torrent of images that accosted us at every turn. Bliptown was alive with our electronic headshots and Winkenweirder film clips, and Papanazis were ubiquitous, digitizing everything and everyone. Most were easily distinguishable. Jetpackers wore large Grim Reaper exoskeletons and robes, and the Papanazi standard issue vehicle was a souped-up Third Reich warplane, the Heinkel He-162 Volksjaeger. I had expected this kind of mayhem, but being in the middle of it terrified me. I pulled next to Dr. Identity and told him to speed up.
    Babettas guarded either side of the palatial, Romanesque entrance of Littleoldladyville. They were about five feet tall, including the beehive hairdos, and signified late octogenarians. The original Babetta had been addicted to tanning booths and a dull orange color tinted their leathery skin. Their faces were sharp and birdlike. A hairy mole was artfully positioned on their chins, and coke bottle spectacles sat on their noses. The spectacles magnified their white, irisless eyes to an estranging degree. Hairy shawls covered their hunchbacks. Their pencil-thin legs were sheathed in netted stockings with fashionable tears in them. From afar, they looked like neckless, over-the-hill ostriches. They didn’t look much different close up.
    Shoppers marched in and out of the entrance in a fluid, orderly swarm. Like the Babettas, most of them were short, frail-looking, and blue-haired. Dr. Identity and I stuck out like spraypainted sequoias as we slipped into the swarm and made for the door.
    I nodded politely at the Babettas as we passed. They didn’t nod back. They stared at me with their giant eyes. One of them growled.
    We entered the store and checked our jetpacks with another Babetta. It was illegal to bring anything into Littleoldladyville except the clothes on our backs, items that were themselves suspect, especially since most fashion statements entailed outrageously baggy outfits, the perfect hideaway for stolen merchandise. In effect, the ADW’s current board of directors was involved in litigation to have clothes banned from it. Soon the only permissible style of clothing on store grounds would be a birthday suit.
    The Babetta flicked us a number and shuffled into a long, narrow hanger, dragging our jetpacks behind it like two dead animals. We would of course never see them again. This wasn’t a problem. If we lived, Littleoldladyville carried a vast array of jetpacks. We would simply add them to our list of needful things.
    “I’m hungry,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth. The stench of hot cabbage in the air grew stronger and thinned out