by Tom Holt
The double nodded. ‘Seems like I owe you a very small apology,’ he said. ‘Not that it means you aren’t a bastard after all, and I’m almost certainly still going to kill you, but according to what I can see inside your skull, you’ve forgotten all about it. The fact that you’re the clone, I mean, and I’m the genuine article. For some reason, you’ve blotted all that part of it out and spliced in some garbage where you created me, and then left me for the cops.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his spare hand. ‘Bloody strange thing to do, if you ask me; after all, why would you deliberately invent a version of the story where you come out of it an even bigger arsehole than you already are?’
David couldn’t think of an answer to that; not that it was at the very top of his mental agenda. A bit prosaic, perhaps, not to mention self-centred and probably shallow, but he was more concerned with the ‘almost certainly going to kill you’ part. His best chance of short-circuiting that, however, appeared to lie in keeping the other him distracted. Accordingly:
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But can we just get this whole thing straightened out, please? You’re saying you’re really David Perkins—’
‘Correct. And you’re a copy of me, inadvertently generated when a stray flake of skin or a loose hair or something floated off me and into the cloning tank. At least I assume that’s what happened; first I knew about it was when you jumped up out of the green soup and tried to strangle me.’
‘I did that?’
‘Quite,’ the doppelganger agreed. ‘Not the sort of behaviour I’d expect from me. But then, if you were an accident, nobody would’ve set the jumpers or checked your input stream for corrupt data; hence you’re me, but a thoroughly screwed-up, fucked-over version of me with severe personality disorders. And, apparently, a selective memory.’
‘Oh,’ David said; and although it really was neither the time nor the place, he started wondering. After all, it was far-fetched but by no means impossible, by the rather idiosyncratic rules of possibility that seemed to operate in these parts. ‘Would it be all right,’ he asked, ‘if I took a peek inside your head, just to compare? It’d save you a lot of time and effort explaining.’
The doppelgänger thought about it for a moment. ‘Don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘If you like, we’ll make that your last request, shall we?’
David nodded. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘No problem. Any friend of me is a friend of mine, and all that. Help yourself. Oh, and if you were thinking any silly thoughts about bunging up my head while you make a grab for the gun, forget it right now. I want shooting you to be a solemn, dignified moment, not something out of a Marx Brothers film.’
Carefully, so as not to make his alter ego nervous, David slipped inside the doppelgänger’s head and started to look around. The first thing he saw was a very large, solid, inflexible Purpose, of which the main feature was his own execution. Quickly sidestepping round it, he found himself in Memories. There was this other him, tied to a chair the way he’d been left in Honest John’s workshop, the night he and John had made their epic escape to Watford, leaving the scapeclone behind.
As he watched, the door flew open and a mob of policemen in Darth Vader costumes burst in, brandishing machine guns. A split second later, after an exquisitely brief but quite distinct moment during which they wobbled and warped like a TV picture in a thunderstorm, they’d gone and a large number of frogs were skittering around the floor, hopping in and out of the armholes of the suddenly empty flak jackets that lay strewn on the ground. He watched as the alternative David Perkins wriggled free from the chair, grabbed one of the policemen’s guns and ducked out through the back door, the one that ought to lead to the interstellar elevator pad. He didn’t get any further than that, because at that precise moment the girl (who’d been sneaking up behind the doppelganger while all his attention was focused on keeping the gun pointed straight) clonked him very hard on the head with a Stilson wrench.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘even though it wasn’t really you, that was fun.’
‘Thanks,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘Here, do you think there might be any truth in what he was saying?’
‘About you being the fake and him being the real milk chocolate? Wouldn’t have thought so. Why, do you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. ‘I looked in his mind like he said I could, but I hadn’t found the relevant bit by the time you socked him, and now I can’t see in there at all.’
The girl gave him a filthy look. ‘All my fault, needless to say. Look, if you like I can wake him up and we can run through that scene again, complete with him sticking that gun up your nose.’
‘It’s all right,’ David replied absently, ‘it isn’t actually loaded.’ He looked up sharply. ‘How do I know that?
Suppose I must’ve seen it in there. Anyhow, there aren’t any bullets in the bullet-holder thing.’
‘Want to bet?’ She reached over, picked the gun up and broke out the clip ‘Nor there are,’ she said, sounding rather bemused. ‘Why’s that, do you think?’
David shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘Either he didn’t want to risk accidentally blowing me away if his hand slipped, or when he was escaping he happened to pick up an empty gun. The first alternative’s more charitable, and since in both versions of the story I haven’t been very nice to him, I think I owe it to him to assume the best, don’t you think?’
‘I think you’re an idiot,’ she replied. ‘But fortunately, I’m here to bash up your enemies, so it’s not as much of a problem as it might otherwise be.’
‘Gosh,’ he said. ‘That sounded almost affectionate.’
‘Really? Like I keep telling you, you’re weird.’
He looked down at the doppelgänger, who was sleeping loggishly in a crumpled heap at his feet. Odd to think that for a while there he’d been scared stiff by an exact facsimile of himself; scary was the last term he’d ever have thought to apply to himself, with or without a machine gun. Seeing himself like this, he couldn’t help wondering yet again what she saw in him, assuming she did see anything and wasn’t just being polite, or the sum of her programming.
‘What’re you going to do with him?’ she asked.
‘God only knows,’ he replied. ‘I can’t just tie him up and call the fuzz; not again. It’d be so much worse, second time around.’
‘True,’ she admitted. ‘But you can’t turn him loose, either. I don’t want to sound gloomy or anything, but I don’t think he likes you very much.’
‘I don’t blame him,’ David said. ‘And let’s face it, what if he is telling the truth? If he’s the real me, I mean. What the hell am I supposed to do then?’
She pulled a face. ‘If you stop and think about the implications of that remark,’ she said, ‘you’ll see why I find them very offensive. I’m not the real me either, remember.’
‘But that’s not—’ He stopped, recognising that she had a point. ‘What do you suggest?’ he asked her.
‘What we should do with Sleeping Beauty there, you mean? Sorry, haven’t got a clue.’ She grinned. ‘Turn him into a frog, maybe.’
David looked at her. ‘Say that again,’ he said.
‘Why? You heard me all right the first—’
‘Say it again.
‘All right. You could turn him into a frog.’
David punched his fist into his palm. ‘And send him back to the Homeworld,’ he said. ‘Ideal solution, thank you.’
‘It is?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Can’t actually see what’s so good about it, myself.’
‘Think about it. If he’s me, or a copy of me, whichever; either way, he’s bound to share my strongest and most intense characteristic.’
‘Stupidity?’
‘Loving you,’ David replied. ‘And I don’t care how hard done by he’s been, I’m not having that. Back Home, of course, there’s no such thing as love, so he’ll be fine.’
‘And that’s your idea of solv
ing a problem, is it? Thank God you never became a doctor.’ She frowned, started to say something, stopped, then started again. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m pretty well certain he’s the clone and you’re the real one.’
Oh?’
‘Yes, actually.’
‘No, I meant, what makes you say that?’
‘Simple.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t love him. And you may be so dim you can’t tell the difference, but—’
‘Meaning,’ he interrupted, ‘that if you don’t love him...’
‘All right, yes,’ she snarled irritably. ‘Though I still can’t think of a single thing about you that’s even remotely attractive, so it’s got to be programming and stupid DNA tricks. Sort of like soya-bean-substitute veal.’
‘You do love me.’
‘Yes. For crying out loud, don’t go on about it.’
David didn’t know what to say. In fact, he was so caught up in the ensuing maelstrom of strong emotions that he almost failed to notice the door flying open and the place suddenly filling up with massively armed and armoured policemen.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bloody hell, David thought, as they slammed him up against the wall and cuffed his hands behind his back, she really does love me! Who’d have thought it?
His feelings must have seeped through onto his face, because one of the policemen demanded to know what he was smirking about.
‘She loves me,’ David replied. ‘Isn’t that amazing?’
‘No accounting for taste,’ the policeman replied. ‘Now shut your face and keep still, or I’ll blow your head off.’
‘What? Oh, right. Sorry.’
Me, he thought, as they dragged him backwards through the door, she actually loves me, not just the face or the voice or even the whole ensemble put together. Otherwise she’d have loved that other me, too; but she didn’t. That’s so incredibly wonderful...
Then he surfaced; just in time to notice that they were about to throw him into a black van with no windows, along with the girl of his dreams and the other him. He frowned. If he allowed himself to be carted off and locked up in some cell, it could seriously disrupt his plans. ‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘what do you think you’re doing?’
‘Shut up and get in the ark ark rivet.’
He hadn’t actually meant to do it. Instinct must’ve grabbed the wheel and taken control. Terribly sweet of instinct to be so concerned on his behalf, but he had the feeling that it’d just made things significantly worse— Thunk. He heard the noise of the rifle butt hitting the back of his head, even had time to identify it before the Sandman grabbed him by the hair and swept him away to Dreamland— (He’d never quite trusted sleep, even when he was quite small; indeed, his childhood had been populated by nightmare monsters who snatched teeth from under his very pillow or scriggled down his chimney clutching sinister sacks and laughing like maniacs. Always at the back of his mind there’d been this feeling that sleep was out to get him; and now he knew why—)
‘Turn them back!’
His eyes snapped open, and showed him a huge purple face, only an inch or so from his own. It was frightened and very, very angry, both at the same time. David sensed that this was probably a highly dangerous combination.
‘Did you hear me?’ the face snarled at him. ‘Turn them back. Now.’
Behind the face, he saw plain brick walls painted government light blue. Recent experience told him exactly where he was. Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage; but when you wake up in a room painted that particular shade of blue from floor to ceiling, it’s a safe bet that you’re in the shit again.
‘Are you a policeman?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ the face growled. ‘And don’t try it. Just don’t. This room is under total surveillance.’ He was right; the face was extremely frightened. ‘You even think about turning me into anything, we’ll flood the room with knockout gas and bash you to a pulp while you’re asleep. You got that?’
Curious sensations these. Not so long ago, he’d learned that someone really loved him. Now here was someone who was actually afraid of him. Remarkable. He raised an eyebrow.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he said.
The face drew back and scowled at him. ‘Don’t you come that with me,’ it said. ‘We know all about you, what you did. We got it on video.’
‘Got what on video?’
‘You,’ the policeman hissed, ‘turning them other officers into frogs. In this very bloody room. So don’t you—’
‘But that’s impossible. You can’t turn people into frogs.’
The policeman shot him a look of pure hatred. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t, but you can. And if you do—’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can.’ He could almost hear the click as the policeman clawed back his self-control from the edge. ‘Like you did to Sergeant Hoskins when he arrested you. We got that on video, an’ all.’
David shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but there must’ve been a mistake somewhere. Changing people’s shape just isn’t possible. It’d be — well, magic.’
‘So you can do magic,’ the policeman roared at him. ‘Big fucking deal. Now turn them back.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can!’
David smiled placidly. ‘Prove it,’ he said.
The policeman’s face turned the colour of a choice Victoria plum. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he said furiously. ‘We got it all on video.’
David nodded. ‘And George Lucas has got miles and miles of film of space battles,’ he replied. ‘Somehow, I don’t think it’d stand up in court, though. Sorry, but you’re going to have to do better than that.’
‘All right.’ The click he thought he’d heard earlier was replaced by the most deafening creaking sound made by the tension-strain of the end of the policeman’s rope. ‘All right, let’s make a deal. What’ll it take to get you to turn them back? I can talk to the judge.’
‘I bet you can,’ David replied. ‘And when you start trying to prove I can do magic, I expect he’ll want to talk to you. Can I see my lawyer now, please?’
The policeman stood up sharply, turned away and walked to the door. David couldn’t see his face, but he was sure he heard a distinct sniffle. It made him feel a trifle guilty. After all, the man was only doing his job; or, to put it another way, obeying orders.
Carefully, so as not to startle him, David reached out into his mind and made a few delicate adjustments. He didn’t change much: a few misapprehensions about frogs, a few strange beliefs about so-called magic powers, a fresh perspective on the Van Oppen murder, which hadn’t in fact taken place. Nothing major.
The policeman turned round and stared at him.
‘Can I go now, please?’ David asked.
‘Huh?’ The policeman frowned, reaching for a memory that wasn’t there any more, like someone trying to scratch an itch in a missing limb. ‘Yes, I suppose so. In fact, come to think of it, I don’t know what you’re doing here in the first place. You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?’
‘Me?’ David shrugged. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Thought not. Right,’ the policeman went on, ‘you can be on your way, sorry to have troubled you.’
‘No problem. And the others—’
‘Others. Oh, you mean the young lady.’ The policeman’s forehead wrinkled like folded corduroy as he scrabbled desperately for a whole bunch of stuff that wasn’t there any more. ‘And the bloke who looks like you. Yeah, they can go too. I’ll tell the sergeant.’
‘Thanks,’ David replied. ‘Have a nice day.’
Outside the police station, it was chilly and fresh, with a hint of rain in the air. David and his mirror image looked at each other for a moment in silence. Then David said, ‘You aren’t really me, are you? You’re the clone.’
The other him shrugged. ‘Yes, well,’ it said. ‘You stitched me up, I thought I’d do the same for you. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ David replied. ‘I asked for it.
‘Thanks. And thanks for getting me off the hook with them. You could’ve left me there.’
David shook his head. ‘We David Perkinses must stick together,’ he said, with a slightly forced smile. ‘So, what’re you going to do now?’
‘Emigrate,’ the other him said forcefully. ‘I was thinking of British Columbia.’
‘I’ve heard it’s nice there,’ David replied neutrally. ‘Or there’s another possibility you might consider.’
‘Oh?’
David nodded. ‘Nice place,’ he said, ‘so I’ve heard. You’d like it there, I’m sure.’
‘Why are you sure?’
‘Well.’ David thought before answering. ‘If I were you — and I am, almost — I’d like it. I’d like it a lot. Really.’
‘Fine. So why don’t you go there, and I’ll stay here. With,’ the doppelgänger added, ‘that absolutely stunning girl I saw you with, just before we got arrested. Is that the famous Philippa Levens, by any chance?’
David smiled at his double, thinking all the while that, if anything, British Columbia was too good for him. ‘Sort of,’ he replied.
‘Sort of? Oh, you mean she’s a clone, too? Ah well, that’s all right, then. Plenty to go round.’
David’s smile broadened, revealing more of his teeth. ‘Nicely put,’ he said. ‘Actually,’ he went on, ‘that’s one of the great attractions of this place I was telling you about.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. They’re absolute wizards at cloning; run you up anybody you like; exact copy, molecule-perfect, while you wait. Don’t even need to have a DNA sample, they’ve got a bit of pretty well everybody on file, it’s sort of like the British Library, only with people. All you’ve got to do is go up to a government official and ask.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Would I lie to you?’ David asked. ‘Come to that, could I lie to you? After all, you’re me.’
The doppelganger reflected for a moment. ‘So basically I could go there and order anybody I liked, just like a drive-through McDonald’s.’
