by David Brin
Still vivid in memory was one yellow Beta, leering as he expertly stimulated the pain receptors that even my greens find realistic. (There are drawbacks to being a first-rate copier.) I recall wondering at the time, why? What did he hope to accomplish with torture? Half of the questions he asked didn’t even make sense!
Anyway, a deep assurance helped me ignore the pain. It doesn’t matter, I told myself over and over, during last night’s captivity. And it didn’t. Not very much.
So why should I feel pity for this golem’s suffering?
“Been here a long time,” it told me. “Came to learn why there’s been no contact from this operation …”
“A long time?” I checked my watch. Less than an hour had passed since Blane’s purples attacked.
“… and found it was taken over, like the others! They chased me … I climbed in this tube … sealed the top … I figured—”
“Hold it! ‘Taken over,’ you say? You mean just now, right? Our raid—”
The face was slumping rapidly. Sounds escaping from its mouth grew steadily harder to understand. Less like words than gurgling rattles.
“I thought at first … you might be responsible. After hounding me for years … But now I can tell … you’re clueless … as usual … Morrissss.”
I wasn’t standing there, breathing nasty fumes, in order to be insulted. “Well, clueless or not, I’ve put this operation of yours out of business. And I’ll shut down others—”
“Too late!” The yellow fell into hacking coughs of bitter laughter. “They’ve already been taken over … by—”
I stepped closer, nearly gagging on decay reeks that spilled from cracks in the golem’s skin. It must be hours past deadline, holding together by willpower alone.
“Taken over, you say? By whom? Another copyright racketeer? Give me a name!”
Grinning caused the face to split, separating flaps of yellow pseudoskin, exposing the crumbling ceramic skull.
“Go to Alpha … Tell Betzalel to protect the emet!”
“What? Go to who?”
“The source! Tell Ri—”
Before he could say more, something snapped. One of Beta’s legs, I guess. The smug expression vanished, replaced on that skeletal face by a look of sudden dread. For the span of an instant, I imagined I could see the Soul Standing Wave through Beta’s filmy clay eyes.
Moaning, the ditto dropped from sight …
… followed by a splash. As fumes gusted, I offered a feeble benediction …
“ ’Bye.”
… and jumped back down to the alley. One thing I didn’t need right then was to let another of Beta’s perverse little paranoia games into my head! Anyway, the brief encounter was recorded by the implant in my eye. My oh-so-analytical ebony golem could ponder the words later.
A job like mine requires focus. And ability to judge what’s relevant.
So I dismissed the incident from mind.
Until next time, I thought.
Back on Alameda, I decided not to wait for Blane to finish in the basement. Let him d-mail me a report. This job was done. My end of it, at least.
I was walking back to my car when a feminine voice spoke up from behind me.
“Mr. Morris?”
For a brief instant I envisioned Gineen Wammaker, the real one, having rushed downtown to congratulate me. Yeah, I know. Fat chance.
I turned to see a brunette. Taller than the maestra, less voluptuous, with a narrower face and somewhat higher voice. Still very much worth looking at. Her skin was one of the ten thousand shades of authentic human-brown.
“Yes, that’s me,” I said.
She flashed a card covered with splotchy fractals that automatically engaged the optics in my left eye, but the patterns were too complex or newfangled for my obsolete image system to deconvolute. Irritated, I bit an incisor to frame-store the image. Nell could solve the puzzle later.
“And what can I do for you, Miss?” Maybe she was a news sniffer, or a thrill perv.
“First, let me congratulate you on this morning’s success. You have a sheen of celebrity, Mr. Morris.”
“My fifteen seconds,” I answered automatically.
“Oh, more than that, I think. Your skills had already come to our attention, before this coup. Might I prevail on you to spare a moment? Someone wants to meet you.”
She gestured down the street a short distance, where a fat limousine was parked. An expensive-looking Yugo.
I considered. The maestra expected me to call with final assurance that third-hand Wammaker toys would stop flooding the market. But hell, I’m human. Inside, I felt as if I had already reported to one Gineen — the white ditto. Why should anyone have to go through that twice? Illogical, I know. But Miss Fractal gave me an excuse to put off the delectably unpleasant duty.
I shrugged. “Why not?”
She smiled and took my arm, in the old thirties style, while I wondered what she wanted. Some press flacks love to sniff detectives after a showy bust — though reporters seldom drive Yugos.
The limo’s door hissed open and the sill lowered, so I barely had to duck my head entering. It was dim inside. And lavish. Bioluminescent cressets and real wood moldings. Pseudoflesh cushions beckoned, wriggling voluptuously, like welcoming laps. Crystal decanters and goblets glittered in the bar. Fancy. Schmancy.
And there, sitting cross-legged on the backseat like he owned the place, was a pale gray golem.
It’s a bit odd to see a rox riding in style with an attractive rig assistant, but how better to show off your wealth? In fact, my host looked as if he’d been born gray. Silver hair and skin like metal, all angles and high cheekbones … not gray, I realized, but a kind of platinum.
He looks familiar. I tried sending a snap-image to Nell, but the limo was shielded. The platinum golem smiled, as if he knew exactly what had happened. I took small comfort from the fact that this creature had no legal rights.
So what? It could still buy and sell you in a second, I told myself, taking the opposite seat while Miss Fractal alighted primly onto a living cushion between us. Opening the limo’s cooler, she took out a bottle of Tuborg and poured me a glass. Basic hospitality. My daytime brew is a matter of public profile. No points for research.
“Mr. Morris, let me present Vic Aeneas Kaolin.”
I managed to quash any outward surprise. No wonder he looked familiar! As one of the founders of Universal Kilns, Kaolin was one of the richest men along the entire Pacific coast. Strictly speaking, the “Vic” honorific — like Mister — should only be used with the real person, the original who can vote. But I sure wasn’t about to stand on protocol if this fellow wants his elegant drone to be called Vic … or Lord Poobah, for that matter.
“A pleasure to meet you, Vic Kaolin. Is there a service I can offer?”
The metal-shiny ditto returned a thin smile, nodding through a window at the contract cleaners, still sweeping up battle remnants.
“Congratulations on your success cornering a wily foe, Mr. Morris. Though I’m not sure about the endgame. All this violence seems unsubtle. Extravagant.”
Did Kaolin own the blemished Teller Building? Wouldn’t a trillionaire have more important chores for his duplicates than hand-delivering a damage lien to a private eye?
“I just performed the investigation,” I said. “Enforcement was up to the Labor Subcontractors Association.”
The young woman commented. “LSA wants to be seen acting decisively about the problem of ditnapping and copyright piracy—”
She stopped when the Kaolin copy raised a hand with skin texture nearly as supple as realflesh, including simulated veins and tendons. “Enforcement isn’t an issue. I believe the matter we want to discuss is an investigation,” he said quietly.
I wondered — surely Kaolin had employees and retainers to handle security matters. Hiring an outsider suggested something out of the ordinary. “Then you didn’t simply rush down here on impulse, because of all this.” I motioned at the untidy
scene outside.
“Of course not,” said the young assistant. “We’ve been discussing you for some time.”
“We have?” Kaolin’s ditto blinked, then shook its silvery head. “No matter. Are you interested, Mr. Morris?”
“Naturally.”
“Good. Then you’ll accompany us now.” He raised a hand again, brooking no argument. “Since you’re here in person, I’ll pay your top consulting rate until you decide to accept or refuse the case. Under a confidentiality seal, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Both his belt phone and mine recognized the key words “confidentiality seal.” They would grab the last few minutes of conversation from latent memory, covering them under a date/time stamp to serve as a contract, for the time being.
Kaolin’s limo started up.
“My car—” I began.
The young woman made a complex gesture, tapping fingers rapidly together. An instant later, there flashed in my left eye a brief text message from my Volvo, asking permission to slave its autodrive to the big Yugo. It would follow close behind, if I said okay.
I did so with a tap of incisors. Kaolin’s assistant was very good. Perhaps even worth lavishly hiring in the flesh. I wished I caught her name.
A forward glance caught the shadow of a driver beyond the smoky panel. Was that servant real, too? Well, the rich are different than you and me.
It was still morning rush hour and the limo had to weave slowly around huge dinobuses, discharging golem passengers from racks slung along sinuous flanks. The buses shuffled and grunted, undulating their long necks gracefully, swinging humanlike heads to gossip with each other as traffic lurched along. From their imposing height, the imprinted pilots had a fine view of the wounded Teller Building. They could even peer into high windows and around corners.
Every kid dreams of becoming a bus driver when he grows up.
Soon we departed Old Town with its blend of shabbiness and gaudy color — its derelict buildings taken over by a new race of disposable beings, built either for hard work or hard play. Crossing the river, we made good time even with my car following behind, tethered by invisible control beams. The architecture grew brighter and more modern, even as the people became bland-looking, equipped only with nature’s dull pigmentation, ranging from pale almost-white to chocolate brown. Trollies and dinobuses gave way to bikes and joggers, making me feel lazy and neglectful by comparison. They tell you in school — take care of your organic body. One rig is all you get.
Aeneas Kaolin’s duplicate resumed speaking.
“I’ve been backtracing your impressive set of narrow escapes yesterday. You appear to be resourceful, Mr. Morris.”
“Part of the job.” I shrugged. “Can you tell me what this is about now?”
Again, the thin smile. “Let Ritu explain.” He motioned to his living assistant.
Ritu, I noted the name.
“There has been a kidnapping, Mr. Morris,” the dark-haired young woman said in a low, tense voice.
“Hm. I see. Well, recovering snatched property is one of my specialties. Tell me, did the ditto have a locator pellet? Even if they cut it out, we can possibly nail down where—”
She shook her head.
“You misunderstand, sir. This was no mere theft. Not a dittograb, as they say on the street. The victim is a real person. In fact, it is my father.”
I blinked a couple of times.
“But …”
“He’s more than just a person,” inserted Kaolin. “Dr. Yosil Maharal is a brilliant researcher. A co-founder of Universal Kilns and a major patent holder in the realm of corporeal duplication. And my close friend, I should add.”
For the first time, I noticed that the platinum’s hand trembled. From emotion? Hard to tell.
“But why not go to the police?” I asked. “They handle crimes against real people. Did the kidnappers threaten to kill Maharal if you tell? I’m sure you’ve heard there are ways to notify special authorities without—”
“We’ve already discussed the matter with state and national gendarmeries. Those officials have been unhelpful.”
I took this in for several seconds.
“Well … I’m at a loss how I could do better. In a situation like this, cops can sift memory files from every public and private camera in the city. For a capital crime, they can even unleash DNA sniffers.”
“Only with a major warrant, Mr. Morris. No warrant was issued.”
“Why not?”
“Lack of sufficient cause,” Ritu replied. “The police say they won’t file an application without clear evidence that a crime was committed.”
I shook my head, trying to adjust my perceptions. The young woman opposite me wasn’t just Aeneas Kaolin’s efficient assistant. She must be a rather rich person in her own right, perhaps a high official in the company that her eminent father helped establish — a company that transformed the way modern people go about their lives.
“Forgive me,” I asked, shaking my head. “I’m confused. The police say there’s no evidence of crime … but you say your father was kidnapped?”
“That’s our theory. But there are no witnesses or ransom notes. A motivationist from the Human Protection Division thinks that Dad simply snuck away, on his own volition. As a free adult, he has the right.”
“A right to try. Not many have the skill to pull off a clean escape, deliberately dropping out of the World Village. Even if you exclude all the private lenses and myob-eyes, that leaves an awful lot of publicams to avoid.”
“And we sifted thousands without tracking down my father, I assure you, Mr. Morris.”
“Albert,” I corrected.
She blinked, hesitantly. Her expression was complex, dour one moment, then briefly beautiful when she smiled. “Albert,” she corrected with a graceful, slanted nod.
I wondered if Clara would call her attractive.
The limo was driving past Odeon Square. Memories of last night made my toes itch … recalling sensations of having them gnawed off by crabs during that hellish underwater trek. I glimpsed the restaurant where a waiter-dit saved me by distracting the crowd. Naturally, it was closed this early. I vowed to drop by and see if the fellow still had a labor contract there. I owed him one.
“Well, we can check out the possibility that your father played hookey. If he arranged to drop out of sight, there should be signs of preparation in his home, or the most recent place he was spotted. If the locales haven’t been disturbed. How long since you saw your father, Ritu?”
“Almost a month.”
I had to choke back a cough. A month! The trail wouldn’t just be cold by now but sedimentary. It was all I could do to keep a blank face and not insult the clients.
“That’s … a long time.”
“As you might guess, I tried first to utilize my own contractors and employees,” Kaolin’s ditto explained. “Only later did it dawn on us that the situation calls for a genuine expert.”
I accepted the compliment with a nod, yet worried why he would want or need to butter me up. Some people are naturally gracious, but I had a feeling this fellow did little without calculation. Flattery from the rich can be a danger signal.
“I’ll need to scan Dr. Maharal’s house and workplace. And permission to interview his associates. If clues lead to his work, I’ll have to know all about that, too.”
Kaolin’s expensively realistic face didn’t look happy. “There are … sensitive matters involved, Mr. Morris. Cutting edge technologies and potentially crucial breakthroughs.”
“I can post a strong confidentiality bond, if you like. Would half a year’s income do?”
He chewed on it for a few seconds. Duplicates are often empowered to speak for their originals — and the most expensive grays can think as well as their archetype, at some metabolic cost. Still, I expected this one to defer any final decision till I spoke to the real Vic.
“An ideal solution,” it suggested, “would be if you came aboard as a Kaolin h
ousehold retainer.”
Not ideal to me, I thought. Fealty oaths are a big fad among aristos, who like the feudal image of lords and faithful vassals. But I wasn’t about to let go of my individuality. “An even better solution would be for you to take the word of a professional who lives by his reputation. It’s a better guarantee than any oath.”
I was only making a counterproposal — part of a negotiation that would finish with Kaolin’s original. But the gray ditto surprised me with a firm nod.
“Then that is all we’ll require, Mr. Morris. Anyway, we appear to have arrived.”
I turned to see the limo approach a tall fence made of blue metal that shimmered with an ionization aura. Beyond the guarded gate, campus grounds extended to three huge bubbledomes, gleaming mirrorlike under the sun. The centermost reared over twenty stories high. No logos or company emblems were needed. Everybody knew this landmark — world headquarters of Universal Kilns.
Another giveaway was the crowd of demonstrators, shouting and waving banners at vehicles streaming through the main entrance — a protest that had waxed and waned for over thirty years. In addition to standard placards, a few aimed holo projectors, splatting car windows (and a few unwary faces) with colorfully irate 3-D comments. Naturally, Kaolin’s limousine filtered out such intrusions. But I mused over a few painted posters:
There Is Only
One Creator!
Brown Is Beautiful
Man-made “Life” Mocks
Heaven and Nature!
And, of course -
One Person:
Just One Soul
Naturally, these protestors were all archies, continuing a struggle that had been lost in both the courts and the marketplace before many of them were born. Yet they persisted, denouncing what they saw as technological arrogation of God’s prerogatives — condemning the daily creation of manufactured beings. Millions of disposable people.
At first, looking out the right side, I saw only True Lifers clamoring and carrying on. Then I realized, several of them were shouting epithets at another crowd — a younger, hipper-looking throng on the left side of the entryway, equipped with more holo throwers and fewer placards. The second group had a different message: