Dr. Identity Read Online Free PDF Page A

Bismark Pierpont, a bar tender at a poor people’s casino in Monte Carlo. Pierpont derives from the Latin De petre pont , meaning stone bridge. Bismark is a type of jelly donut in addition to a first name. That’s all I know. That was the de facto scoop your student-things gave me. To be nonhuman . Nobody told me about that kind of technodesire. I’m not programmed to identify that kind of vogue.”
    I closed my eyes, shook my head. Pinched the bridge of my nose.
    Von Yolk. Son of Boris Von Yolk, a major player in Corndog University’s Alumni Association. Over the past decade he had contributed millions. His son was a spoiled little brat who would have no doubt grown up to be a spoiled big brat like his father. But even I wouldn’t have executed him. Just to be safe, I wouldn’t have executed his ’gänger either.
    Dostoevsky snickered. He knew how much trouble I was in.
    Petunia laughed out loud.
    I lost my temper…
    I removed a carton of cold fried chicken from my desk and gnawed three pieces to the bone.
    Dr. Identity’s head drooped. “I’m sorry. My intention was not to irk you.”
    I patted my ’gänger on the hip. “We’ll figure something out. I need a little time to think. I need a little time to think.” I paused. “Did I just repeat myself?” I paused again, licking chicken grease from my lips. “Did I just repeat myself…again? Sometimes I can never remember if I repeat myself, if I repeat myself…Pardon me for a minute or two. I’ll be back shortly. Don’t leave this office. In the meantime, Dr. Identity, I’d appreciate it if you’d rearrange my desktop files into some sort of meaningful order. Thank you. Thank you…Thank you.”
    I reached behind the closet and depressed a lever. A door in the wall scraped open like a tombstone. The door scraped closed behind me as I stepped into a narrow passage, took three strides, and pivoted into another, slightly wider passage that ran parallel to my office.
    A cognitive luge.
    Illuminated by an industrial blacklight, the luge was a short hallway about twelve feet long just large enough to accommodate my frame. During my first month as a Corndog University employee, I had Dr. Identity hollow it out for me with a shovel and pick axe late one night. Nobody knew about it except for the occupants of my office. And nobody was allowed access to it except me. I didn’t know if the luge was illegal or not. Judging from my experience with the department’s illegalities so far, I assumed it was.
    I retired to the luge at least once a day to pace away my anxiety. The idea came from Adolph Hitler. According to some sources, the fürher had constructed a secret room that he used solely for the “art” of pacing and meditation. Granted, his room was much larger and more luxurious than my dingy little corridor with its swinging purple light. But both served the same purposes.
    Rumor had it that the speed at which Hitler paced was unparalleled, some said inhuman. In the recently discovered Scherpilzflechte Diaries , bodyguard Rudolf Hess claimed to have spied on Hitler through a gloryhole in the wall and clocked him with a stopwatch going over 30 mph. Apparently the faster he paced, the deeper his meditative trance. I couldn’t boast that kind of speed. Even if I possessed the physical capacity to achieve 30 mph, there wasn’t enough room in the luge: my elbows rubbed against the walls as I paced, and my pivoting technique was underdeveloped and awkward. Still, I could hold my own. On a good day I revved up to seven mph. But speed wasn’t important right now. Right now I had to figure out what the hell to do.
    Dr. Identity wasn’t the first android to accidentally murder a human student-thing. Not in this department, not at this university. In fact, the practice was fairly commonplace. Unfortunately so was the punishment…
    I worked up to a pace of three, maybe four mph. I may have hit five mph…Then I froze in my tracks like an exclamation point.
    This