Dr. Identity by D. Harlan Wilson Page B

as clusters of little old ladies toddled past us.
    Dr. Identity narrowed its eyes at me. “Why are you whispering?”
    I gnawed on my lip. “I don’t know,” I said in a normal voice. “Anyway, I’m hungry. But we need weapons first.”
    “I know what we need. I know you’re hungry. You don’t have to keep telling me. Over and over you tell me.” The android surveyed the insane parade of aisles that stretched over and ahead of us like a galactic cornfield. “We need an entropy projector. And organic weaponry. Biological claws, tentacle wads, piranha balls, maybe a few monsters-in-a-can. We’ll want vibronic munitions. A glaive for me and a tetronix for you. Cutting edges are essential. Fusion stilettos, razor fans, razor tentacles, toxic flechettes, force projector shurikens. I’d like a hypersharp Vorpal sword. And a monofilament whip. And a razorwire yo-yo. We shouldn’t forget about guns. I prefer blades, but one likes to be well-rounded. We would do well to amass everything from idiot guns to biologic, electric, psychic, metaphysical, phenomenological and linguistic firearms—the latter three for kicks, of course. I’ve always wanted to pump someone full of French turns-of-phrase with a raison d’être MK-7. I’ve always wanted to turn someone’s reality inside-out with a stream of excited quarks fired from a lepton pistol. We don’t have time for these kinds of fun and games. But one likes to keep up an air of theatrics.”
    My ’gänger spoke in a detached monotone. I didn’t know if it was kidding or serious. Either way, it was unwell. I wondered when psychosis would fully set in and short-circuit its nervous system.
    “I’ve let you teach too many science fiction classes,” I said.
    Dr. Identity’s pupils mutated into large asterisks. “It’s possible. More likely, however, I’m just a product of the future. And the future’s been extinct for a long time.”

06
    ACHTUNG 66.799 & CO. – 3RD PERSON
    Achtung 66.799 came up with the idea of a stainless steel cuckoo clock while doing secretarial work for Dodo, Meese & Bolshevik, a company that produced the number six for several successful brands of holographic, digital and corporeal clock faces. At the time he was getting reprimanded by the secretary-in-chief for fooling around in the Schizoverse during working hours. The secretary-in-chief was being surrogated by her ’gänger. Its breath smelled like sulfur. Achtung 66.799 stared over its shoulder at the antiquated Weiner wood cuckoo clock hanging on the wall as the android accused him of laziness, lack of enthusiasm, a mild case of anthropomorphism, and “inexorable loutishness.” The clock struck nine, a door irised open, and a mechanical bird tentatively poked out its head. It was Tuesday and the clock’s real bird, a clone of a crimson-breasted shrike, had the day off. Although new and tentative about telling the time, the surrogate finally produced an irresolute squawk.
    The surrogate was made of stainless steel. Achtung 66.799 liked the way it gleamed in the light of the office. The guise worked for the bird. Why not for a whole clock?
    “Hey!” shouted the secretary-in-chief’s ’gänger. “Pay attention to me when I’m tearing you a new asshole!”
    Achtung 66.799 nailed the android with a right hook. The punch broke two of his knuckles. He screamed out his resignation and puttered to the nearest surgery stand on the broken wings of a blue-collar jetpack.
    As a street surgeon rebuilt his knuckles, he mulled over the particulars of his would-be new invention, wondering where he might get the capital to produce it. There were also the formalities of cuckoo clock copyrights and a patent to consider. He didn’t know shit about those things. Nor did he know much about clocks in general. He barely knew how to tell time.
    Achtung 66.799 realized that quitting his job may not have been the wisest course of action. He was too proud to beg for it back. But it didn’t matter.