by Patrick Whittaker

SOMEONE MUST HAVE been telling lies about me, for without having done anything wrong, I was summoned to Clone International one morning. Not that I minded. It’s nice to get away from the real world for an hour or two.

I arrived at the Cl building, headed for reception, and took a ticket nom tile machine. My number was 36. Tile sign said 35. So I was next. Which was surprising as there were about a couple of hundred people already waiting. Helping myself to a complimentary copy of the latest issue of the house magazine, I sat down at tile end of a row of chairs and tried to look inconspicuous.

I glanced at the cover of the magazine. There was no picture – just ‘INTERCLONE No. 126’ in big red letters. Having avidly read issues 1 to 125, I knew what to expect.

There was a surprise on page 7, but it turned out to be a typographical error. As always, I read the ‘Deja-vu’ column twice. It was entertaining, if predictable. Then the sign buzzed and 35 became 36. As one, 12 rows of grey suited people rose, put down their Interclones and headed for a set of revolving doors. There was no point in telling anyone I had ticket 36, because so did everyone else.

Undeterred, I pushed and elbowed my way through the grey mass until a fork in tile corridor where the mass went one way and I went the other. Breathlessly, I ran up some stairs and along a passage to Room 101.

A funny thing: every door in that passage had a metal plaque that said ROOM 101. Fortunately, I knew which Room 101 I wanted.

Front behind a metal desk, a Miss Riordan greeted me as I walked in. I saw from her badge that she was, in fact, Miss Riordan No. 27. I had hoped for Miss Riordan No. 6 – not least because I had a bit of a thing for her.

‘Good morning, Mr X,’ she said, reading my name from my badge. ‘Mr Coolidge is expecting you.’

I looked along the many rows of desks that filled Room 101. Each was occupied by an industrious Mr Coolidge. Most were tapping away at computer keyboards; none were looking in my direction.

‘Which Mr Coolidge?’ I asked.

Miss Riordan frowned. ‘Don’t you know?’

‘The summons just said report to Mr Coolidge in Room 101.’

‘Oh dear.’ Miss Riordan consulted a large black book. ‘Mr Coolidge No. 72. He’s at the back.’

It transpired that No. 72 was the very latest Mr Coolidge, hatched nom a bio-pod less than a week before. So I was a little amused when he shook my hand and said, ‘Adam! Great to see you again.’

I sat opposite the 72nd Mr Coolidge and went through the usual ritual of making small talk and refusing a cup of coffee. After a decent interval, Coolidge cleared his throat and treated me to a serious look.

‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘we’re concerned about you, Adam. Or – rather – we’re concerned about the direction your work’s taking. It’s as if you don’t want to be a Science Fiction writer any more.’

This came as a surprise as I had just submitted Martian Time Slip, which I considered my best and wackiest novel to date. Coolidge 72 adjusted the creases of his trousers.

‘As it stands, there’s no way we’re going to publish your latest work. I, for one, would like to know where you get your ideas.’

‘From real life, mostly.’ It was my stock answer. Where does any author get his ideas?

‘And your characters?’

‘People I know, mainly.’

‘And that, if I may say so, is the crux of the problem.’ Coolidge leaned forward and gave me a look that was part bank manager, part headmaster. It left me in no doubt that he ct)nsidered me a reprt)bate t)f the highest order. ‘Don’t you ever read, for goodness sakes!? There’s a whole wealth of Science Fiction books from which you can borrow ideas and characters.’

‘I try to be original.’

A sudden silence descended on Room 101. It was briefly shattered by a Miss Riordan falling to the floor in a dead faint. Coolidge 72 rolled his eyes. I now had the undivided attention of a roomful of Coolidges and Riordans.

‘And,’ I went on, horribly aware of how dry my mouth had become, ‘I believe in three dimensional characters.’

Coolidge 72 looked as if he might hit me. ‘We don’t like that sort of talk here, Mr X.’

‘What’s wrong with originality?’

‘Do you have something against clones?’

‘Not at all.’

‘But you’ve never been cloned, have you?’

‘I don’t see the need to.’

‘Just think of the increase in productivity.’

‘I hold firmly to the view that my value as a human being would he diminished if I were no longer unique.’

‘So you think clones are inferior?’

‘Far from it. I just don’t want to be cloned.’

‘We have a saying amongst us clones,’ said No. 72, and I knew what was coming next. ‘Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.’

I wasn’t having any of it. For years I had fought a long and hard battle to retain my uniqueness and I wasn’t about to relinquish it now. ‘There’s no law that says I have to be cloned.’

‘Not yet there isn’t.’ Coolidge 72 scratched the side of his nose. ‘I think it’s time you visited the Azimuth Room.’

My reply to this was along the lines of: ‘Aagh! No! Not the Azimuth Room!’

IT TOOK THREE security guards, one tranquilliser dart and several mantras of ‘Resistance is Futile’ to subdue me to a level one step below hysteria. Then seven Coolidges escorted me to the Azimuth Room and left me there with Coolidge 72.

The Azimuth Room was half museum, half shrine. Tales told to me by fellow Science Fiction writers had led me to expect something more approximate to a medieval torture chamber. It had an air of solemn sanctity which gripped me immediately and soothed my troubled soul. I was on hallowed ground.

Coolidge 72 led me to an altar upon which sat a large, blue urn.

‘This,’ he announced with a trembling lower lip, ‘is the final resting place of the bones of Isiah Azimuth (blessed be his name).’

Despite my atheist tendencies, I was in awe. ‘This is a privilege...’

‘It’s a pity you weren’t here earlier,’ said Coolidge. ‘You’d have seen the Daily Ritual of the Reading of the Relics. That’s when the High Necromancer picks over Azimuth’s bones.’

‘Forgive my ignorance – but why?’

‘To determine current and future trends in Science Fiction. We at Clone International are at the forefront of SF publishing. We intend to stay there.’

‘And what are the current and future trends?’

‘More of the same. Keep to the formula. Don’t take chances.’ Coolidge 72 directed my gaze towards a display of books. ‘These are next season’s publications as dictated by Azimuth’s bones.’

I read the titles. Seventeenth Corset by Isiah Azimuth and Ralph Goldberg. Back to the Corset by Isiah Azimuth and AE Van Winkle. Four Go Wild in a Corset by Isiah Azimuth and Enid Bester. In all, some 20 Corset Books written by the late Isiah Azimuth and some other leading light in the SF field.

Coolidge 72 spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Between you and me, Adam, there’s still a chance of squeezing your latest novel onto our list. It just needs a few changes. Take the title for instance – Martian Time Warp. Sounds a bit old fashioned, doesn’t it? Why not call it Corset Time Warp? Actually, drop the warp bit and rum the concept around and I think you’re almost there. What do you think about Corset Time Trap? That grabs, doesn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Think about it, Adam. A bit of fine-tuning and I can almost guarantee we’ll buy it. The killer robots have to go though. Nobody wants tin men with minds of their own. I mean, it’s hardly likely, is it? Or had you forgotten the Three Laws of Robotics?’

‘I hadn’t forgotten. But I see no reason why they should be inviolate.’

Coolidge 72 gave me an odd look which I think might have been pity. ‘Come, come, Adam. You’re meant to be writing Science Fiction – not Fantasy. Killer robots! Whatever next?’

We strolled along an avenue of display cabinets, each containing some relic from the life of Isiah Azimuth – his first typewriter, a pile of rejection slips, a toe nail.

‘I want you to meet someone,’ said Coolidge, showing me to a seat in front of a small holo-screen. He glanced at his watch. ‘Any second now. This is going to blow your mind.’

After some moments, the lights went dim and the holo-screen flickered into life.

Somehow, I wasn’t surprised to be confronted with a life-size image of Isiah Azimuth.

The Great Man was sitting on a golden throne, wearing a dressing gown and a pair of brown slippers. And – yes – it’s true what they say about his sideburns. They glowed like corn beneath a summer sun. ‘Hi,’ he said, staring at a point about a metre above my head. ‘Isiah Azimuth here, welcoming you to Clone International’s famous Azimuth room. Using the science of Histrionics, I have tapped into the future and know that at this moment in time, I will have sitting in front of me some rebellious author who simply will not play ball. Due to his stubbornness, I have decided to call him the Mule.

‘Also in the room will he an employee of Cl who is undoubtedly expecting me to do my usual speech about ‘Let’s get together and write a book’. He thinks – poor sap – that I’m going to talk yet another author into yet another posthumous collaboration on yet another novel in my classic, earth-shattering Corset series.’

Azimuth’s image paused for a sly chuckle. I could feel Coolidge 72’s breath on the back of my neck.

‘This is unheard of,’ Coolidge declared. ‘We need another Corset book...’

‘What the world doesn’t need right now,’ said Azimuth, ‘is another Corset book. There’d be no point.’

Coolidge groaned. ‘No point? What is he saying?’

‘I’m saying that even if there were another book in the offing there’d be no time to publish it. The world as you know it, gentlemen, is coming to an end. This is my final message to the world. Goodbye and welcome to World War III.’

Wouldn’t you just know if? The old buzzard was right. I’ve no idea who pressed which button where, or even why. All I know is that two days after my visit to the Azimuth Room, warheads were flying everywhere. Day turned to night. Night fumed to day. The Four Horsemen had their long-awaited works outing. Whole countries disappeared off the face of the Earth. If the radiation didn’t get you, a mutant virus would.

FOR A WHILE, I was certain I was the last person left on Earth – a dismal prospect for a writer. And then, one day as I was foraging through the ruins of London, a hand tapped me on the shoulder and a gentle, seductive voice greeted me with,

‘Another human being! Thank God.’

We kissed, we hugged, we fell in love instantly.

‘My name’s Adam,’ I said, taking my new-found companion’s hand.

‘My name’s Eve.’

‘Such a beautiful name. Together we can begin the human race anew.’

‘There’s something I ought to tell you, Adam.’

‘Not now, my love. You have your past, I have nine. But all that is gone forever – blown away by the winds of war. Let’s call this a new start for both of us.’

‘You’re lovely, Adam, and I’m sure we’ll he happy together. But I think you should know I’m a man.’

‘You don’t look like a man.’

‘I’ve had breast implants. But for this crazy war, I would have had a further operation and been a woman by now.’

‘You’re not a clone, are you?’

‘Good Lord, no.’

I took Eve in my arms and kissed him full on the lips. As my papa used to say – when you get to Hell, make like you’re in Heaven.

Patrick Whittaker has a story in The Edge #10.