“Oh thank Christ for that.” I collapse down onto what’s left of a desk. It wobbles ominously.
“Shit,” Hannah says, looking at Kayla. “What the bloody hell happened to you?”
Kayla shrugs. “Other way around. I feckin’ happened to about ten of those mechanical bastards out there.”
That seems to take Hannah back a step. Though it’s possibly a lesser blow than the one I land when I clap Hannah on the shoulder and say, “Don’t worry, eventually you get used to her saying things like that.”
Kayla’s eyes flick back and forth, suspicious. “What’s with the feckin’ camaraderie bullshit? If I have to fight feckin’ doppelgangers today,” she says, “well, that’s feckin’ it. Big German bomb or no big German bomb, I’m going home after that. Feck with your head, doppelgangers do. They’re my feckin’ limit.”
“Oooh!” says a voice from behind Kayla. “Doppelgangers? Really? I’ve read all about them, but never actually met one. Should be fascinating. Though watch out for the poisonous spit.”
Clyde pushes his way into a field of crumpled brows.
“Hello,” he says. “Sorry it took so long to get… oh wait, are you the doppelgangers? Well I must say that really is quite impressive. Really took me in at first. I never thought it would be that—”
“I am bloody Arthur,” I say to Clyde. “This is Hannah.” We don’t have time for this now. There is the bisected half of an Uhrwerkmänn lying unguarded in a reality not too far from here.
Clyde nods, then slows. “Wait,” he says, “you would say that if you were a doppelganger…”
“Clyde,” I say, “there are no doppelgangers here. Kayla was making a joke.”
Clyde’s eyes narrow. “If you were the real Arthur, you would know that Kayla doesn’t make jokes.”
Kayla wheels on him. “What? I’m funny as feck.” It is possibly fortunate for Clyde that I still have Kayla’s sword.
Clyde, pressed up against the wall, flicks his eyes from me and Hannah to Kayla. “You’re all doppelgangers!” he gasps.
This job makes too many implausible things seem possible.
“Clear the damn doorway already. A pissing queue out here.” Tabitha shoves her way into the room. “No damn doppelgangers in here,” she snaps at Clyde. “Goddamn idiot.”
For some reason Clyde smiles at this.
“Good,” I say, “everyone’s here. Now we can—”
But the influx of irate people doesn’t stop there. Stooping through the tight corridor of shelves into the room, comes Hermann.
“Wait…”
And then another Uhrwerkmänn. And another. Four of them. Five. We are rapidly running out of space.
“What the hell?” I’m knee deep in the pile of books I dislodged from the far wall. “What’s going on?”
“Bumped into them on the way down,” Clyde says as if this is the most perfectly natural thing to do on any given day.
But I fix my eyes on Hermann. Fresh plates of metal are welded to his body. The seams still shine fresh. His ruined arm has been straightened, splints of steel bracing the joint. “You didn’t want anything to do with us,” I say. “You told us to go away.”
Hermann snorts. “This is not help. This is not trusting you to do things correctly.” It’s hard to tell but I don’t think he quite meets my eye as he says that.
“Machen Sie Platz,” calls a voice from back through the doorway.
“How many of you are there?” I ask.
Hermann shrugs. “All of us.”
Holy crap. It may be small, but I think MI37 suddenly has an army at its disposal.
“Just out of interest,” Clyde pipes up, “but just before this becomes one of those tricks involving clowns and small cars. Like a Mini for example. Pretty quintessential small car, though I do think they use VW Beetles from time to time. And probably some less well known, cheaper vehicles, I imagine. Not that the type of vehicle matters I imagine. Imagine it’s all done with trapdoors really. Unless clowns are all part of some underground magical fraternity, I suppose. Not entirely out of the realm of possibility. Take Morris men for example. Seem totally harmless, then you deflate one’s pig bladder, and good lord, you better be on the move fast. Which is a useful life tip, I suppose, but not what I was aiming to say. Actually more interested in the sort of why and wherefore of the aforementioned cramming. At least I think I mentioned cramming. Us that is. Cramming in here. Still not understanding why we’re doing it. Lovely room as this is, of course. Didn’t mean to cast aspersions on Lang’s decorating aesthetic. Totally fine with aspersions on his political point of view. Total shit of a man. But I do sort of dig this room.”
Finally he takes a breath.
“Nested realities,” I say into the gap before he can get going again. Clyde’s mouth opens but no sound comes out. He twists his head, looks at me.
“An archway,” Hannah puts in. “It opens up right in that wall. Great big bloody thing. Goes to some place full of Uhrwerkmänner. Kept on coming in here and trying to off us, they did.”
“Sort of put paid to them, didn’t we?” I say.
“We did that.” Hannah grins.
Clyde looks at the mutual grins, gasps again. “Doppelgangers!”
“Oh shut up,” I manage.
“It’s not… No.” Hannah is infringing on my ineloquence copyright. “I still quit. It’s just…” She shakes her head. “Look, are we going to put an end to these arse-wipes or not?”
“I should probably mention,” I say, “they’re building the Uhrwerkgerät in there.”
Clyde’s jaw drops.
An exasperated snort bursts out of Hermann. “This is why I do not trust you,” he says. “You take too long.”
“Got a point,” Tabitha says. “The giant metallic arsehole does.”
“Would you mind ever so much just giving me the reality key?” Clyde asks. “I mean, if it’s not too much bother. And presuming you don’t—”
I shove the key into his hands. “Do what you need to do. I don’t understand the bloody thing.”
Clyde turns and twists the key this way and that, a puzzled look on his face. Then suddenly he grins. “Oh,” he says. “You clever bastard.” He twists hard, light blooms, and somewhere deep in my skull reality takes a punch in the nadgers again.