Kozeniewski Billy and the Cloneasaurus

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 661-000006913-2
Verlag: French Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 200 Seiten

Six billion identical clones make up the entire population of Earth, and William 790-6 (57th Iteration) is exactly like everybody else. In his one year of life he will toil in suburban mediocrity and spend as much cash as possible in order to please his corporate masters. When 790's first birthday (and scheduled execution) finally rolls around, a freak accident spares his life.
Living past his expiration date changes 790 profoundly. Unlike other clones he becomes capable of questioning the futility of his own existence. Seeking answers in the wilderness, he discovers a windmill with some very strange occupants, including a freakish, dinosaur-like monstrosity. Which is especially strange since every animal on earth is supposed to be extinct...
Dark, haunting, and blisteringly satirical, Billy and the Cloneasaurus is the story of one 'man's' attempt to finally become an individual in a world of copies.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kozeniewski, Stephen

Leseproben

The Whirling Fan of Death abruptly stopped spinning the instant it struck William 789-6’s abdomen.  The chalky-white, pain-wracked face of 789 stared at them accusingly for about fifteen seconds before he finally succumbed to blood loss.  (Intestinal loss was also, no doubt, a contributing factor to the poor clone’s death.) William 64-6, the slurry machine operator, clad in a white plastic apron and all-encompassing goggles whistled archly and said, “Well, that’s never happened before.” William 790-6 reached up and tugged on his shirt collar.  He cleared his throat, not really knowing what else to do.  64 didn’t make a move and seemed to be waiting for 790 to prompt him.  It was typical clone behavior, but, of course, that meant that 790’s own inclination was also to not move, but to wait for someone else to prompt him.  With an exhausted sigh, 790 gestured at the remaining half of 789 still stuck in the slurry machine. “Why don’t you, uh, reach in and see if you can clear the, uh, obstruction?” 64, the operator, scratched his chin lightly with the back of his fingernails.  It was a mannerism that 790 cultivated, too, of course.  All the clones could read one another like books.  It was just like looking in the mirror.  This particular maneuver appeared to indicate a gentle disinterest, but in fact, would be expressed in words as, “Heck no, not in a million billion frickin’ years.” Finally, 64 spoke. “Well, I ain’t sticking my hand in there.” Then he stared at 790 expectantly.  Briefly, 64 glanced down at his watch. “Almost quittin’ time,” he commented, as Williams the world over did at around this time every day. 790 sighed, defeated.  There was nothing for it.  He was the next in line for the sluicer, after all.  If he lost his hand removing the jam, it just meant one hand less that the machine would have to process in a moment.  Heck, 64 probably wouldn’t have minded if he just jumped in and processed himself along with the top half of 789.  Somehow, though, that would have lacked dignity, and William clones were nothing if not concerned about their dignities. “All right, let’s have a look,” 790 said, moving towards the clear plastic tube in the center of the room. He rolled up his sleeves and prepared to plunge his arm down into the grimacing cloaca of the machine.  He stopped midway through, interrupted by 64 clicking his tongue and waving his index finger. “Ah ah,” said 64, tapping his own wrist. 790 glanced down and removed his watch.  It was a metal watch, nothing fancy like gold.  Stainless steel, maybe?  Titanium?  Anyway, it was digital.  The Williams had never much cared to read analog time.  As a matter of fact, analog time telling had been all but phased out.  In fact, the only places where you could find second hands and hour hands and all those silly hoo-has anymore was in some of the old clock towers in some of the older Williamsports and Williamsburgs.  Big Bill sprang to mind. “Actually,” 790 said, “I think I can see the blockage from here. “Oh?” 64 said, finally stepping out from behind his control console. 64 glanced down into the fan where 789’s torso was caught. “Yeah,” said 790, pointing at it, “You just made me think of it.  There it is.  He had his right hand down in there on his hip.  See?” “Oh,” 64 said, “Lookit.  He forgot to take his watch off.” “How do you fix that?” 790 asked. “I dunno.  Never happened before.” “Why don’t you, uh, dislodge it?” “Look,” 64 said as matter-of-factly as the Williams ever got, “Thing is, today’s not my day.  January 6.  Next year.  That’s me.  And you know, you lose a hand, they move up your date.  You’re no good to them handless.” “But it’s all right if I lose a hand, eh?” “Today’s your day, Will,” 64 said, “I’m sorry it had to be that way, but it is.  March 20.  781 through 790.  That’s the way it is.” “So nobody’s date’s been moved up this year?” “Not so far.  And I don’t intend to be the first.” Typical.  Avoiding danger.  Fearful of change.  Not many Williams lost their hands, or any other body part for that matter.  They were diligent.  Dependable.  “You’re a jerk, Will,” 790 muttered under his breath. “What’s that?” 64 said, probably catching the gist, but as was expected from his genetic code, not wanting to admit it to himself. “Here, hand me that,” 790 said, much louder this time. 64 emerged from his concerned crouch and plucked a mop handle out of a bucket in the corner of the room.  He handed it to his still-crouching clone. “Here you go, Will,” 64 said, in as conciliatory a voice as he could muster considering that he might darn well be going home late tonight. Without even looking down, 790 jammed the mop handle down into the fan mechanism.  He kept his eyes locked on 64, who slowly slunk away under his clone’s withering gaze.  It didn’t take more than thirty seconds before 790 caught the watch, pushed it away from the wrist which it enveloped with a sickening crunch, and waited for the fan to begin spinning again. Nothing happened. “Well, it’s dislodged,” 790 said. “It is?” He nodded. “Why isn’t it moving?” 64 asked, nervously tapping his fingertips together. “You’re asking me?  This is your job, Will.” 64 ran his hand around his collar in a near duplication of the move 790 had executed earlier while waiting to be slurried. “I know it is, Will, but this has never happened before,” 64 said, “No one’s ever failed to strip...completely...before.” “You mean not in the...three months you’ve been doing this?” “Right.  That’s what I mean.” “Well, Will, here we are.  What do you think we should do about it?” 790 planted his hands on his hips, a typical gesture of defiance amongst the Williams.  He was naked as the day was long, which 64 clearly found discomfiting.  He could stare at little Willy dongs all day as long as they were just lining up to be slurried, but when something went off plan, he was suddenly very aware of the nakedness of his victims, er, “customers.” A bead of sweat rolled down 64’s face.  If 790 knew anything about his exact physical double, he knew that soon 64’s armpits would be illuminated with brilliant yellow stains and then he would be sweating through his clothes.  790 decided then and there that, he personally, would remain cool as a cucumber.  Let this kid, not even through his first quarter, panic.  It was no skin off 790’s nose.  He was dead either way. “All right, listen, Will,” 64 said, clutching at his esophagus, which seemed to be collapsing in on itself, “So, here’s what we’ll do.  It’s, ah, 4:40 now.  So, your replacement should be decanted, but ah, wouldn’t have left yet.” “On a Friday?” 790 said, checking his watch, “I’ll be lucky if he hasn’t left yet.  I know you would’ve left 20 minutes ago if it wasn’t for this whole slobbery screwup.” “All right, now, there’s no need to get vulgar, is there, now, Will?” 64 was really hedging now. “So, look, just grab your clothes, go down, hitch a ride with your replacement, spend the night with him, and, ah, report here first thing in the morning and we’ll let the weekend crew take care of you.” 790 had never felt so distant from another William.  He had to laugh.  He had always heard the old-timers, fellows in their fourth quarter or late third, talking about how everything changed as you reached your birthday and the slurry machine loomed for you.  He had never really believed it, but here it was.  He felt different from 64, and feeling different from another William had to be a first. “First thing?” 790 asked, nudging 789’s better half, “You’re going to have poor Will cleared out by then?  And have the slurry machine fixed?  Do you even know how?” 64 blanched white.  “Well, no,” he admitted, “but I’ll put in a note to maintenance and they’ll take care of it.  Ricky tick.” “Not on a Friday night they won’t,” 790 said, “I’ll try to be here by noon.  Hopefully, it’ll be sorted by then.  And hopefully we won’t make your poor replacements stay too late tomorrow.” “It’s just eleven,” 64 said. “We can normally take care of ten, with wiggle room.” 790 gathered up his clothes.  He didn’t bother putting any of them on as he strode towards the door out of the slush...