Kiln People

by David Brin

  End the Slavery of Clay People!

  “Synthetic” Is a Social Slur

  UK Serves the “Real” Ruling Class!

  Rights for Roxes!

  All Thinking Beings Have Souls

  “Mancies,” said Kaolin in a low voice, glancing at this second crowd, which included lots of bright-skinned dittos. Unlike the True Lifers, who were a familiar sight, this Emancipation movement had burgeoned much more recently — a crusade that still had many people scratching their heads.

  The two protest groups despised each other. But they agreed on hatred of Universal Kilns. I wondered, would they put aside their animus and join forces if they knew the company chairman, Vic Aeneas Kaolin himself, was passing nearby?

  Well, not “himself.” But close enough.

  As if he knew my thoughts, he chuckled. “If these were my only enemies, I wouldn’t have a care in the world. Moralists make a lot of noise … and sometimes mail a pathetic bomb or two … but they are generally predictable and easy to sidetrack. I get a lot more aggravation from practical men.”

  Which particular opponents did he mean? Kiln technology disrupted so many fundamentals of the old way of life, I still puzzle why it wasn’t throttled in the crib. Beyond ravaging every labor union and throwing millions out of work, roxing almost triggered a dozen wars that only quelled after intense diplomacy by some first-rate world leaders.

  And some people say there’s no such thing as progress? Oh, there’s progress, all right. If you can handle it.

  Security scanners cleared the limo and we left the demonstrators behind, passing a main entrance where buses delivered ditto workers, discharging them from leathery racks. But most arriving employees were organic humans who would make their copies onsite. Quite a few archies approached on bicycles, glowing from the sweaty workout, looking forward to a steam and massage before getting to work. Companies like UK take good care of their people. There are benefits to giving a fealty oath.

  We cruised beyond the main portal, then on past sheltered loading docks, shipping machinery like freezers, imprinting units, and kilns. Most of the ditto blanks that people buy are made elsewhere, but I did glimpse some specialty items as we swept by — rigid figures dimly visible inside translucent packing crates, some of them uncannily tall, or gangly, or shaped like animals out of some legend. Not everyone can handle being imprinted into a non-standard human shape, but I hear it’s a growing fashion among trendsetters.

  The limo approached a formal entrance, clearly meant for VIP arrivals. Liveried servitors with emerald skin, the same color as their uniforms, rushed up to open our doors and we emerged under a canopy of artificial trees. Flowers dropped fragrant petals in rainbow profusion, like soft rain, dissolving into sweet, pigmented vapor before touching ground.

  Looking around, I saw no sign of my Volvo. It must have peeled off to a more plebeian parking place. The dented fenders wouldn’t suit this ambiance.

  “So, where to now?” I asked the gray Kaolin replica. “I’ll need to meet your original and finalize—”

  His blank expression stopped me.

  Ritu explained. “I thought you knew. Vic Kaolin doesn’t see visitors in person anymore. He conducts all business by facsimile.”

  I had heard. He wasn’t the only rich hermit to retreat into a sanitized sanctum, dealing with the world via electronic or pseudoflesh deputies. But in most cases it was affectation, a pose — a way to limit access — with exceptions made for important matters. The disappearance of a renowned scientist might qualify.

  I started to say this, then saw that Ritu no longer paid attention. Her pale eyes shifted to stare past my right shoulder, both irises flaring while her chin quivered in shock. At almost the same moment, Kaolin’s copy let out a reflex gasp.

  Ritu vented a single word as I swiveled.

  “Daddit!”

  A clay person approached us from behind the floral arbor — with skin a much darker shade of gray than Kaolin’s elegant platinum-colored unit. This ditto was embossed to resemble a slender man about sixty, walking with a faint limp that seemed more habit than a current affliction. The face, narrow and angular, bore some resemblance to Ritu, especially when it shaped a wan smile.

  The paper garments were taped in several places, but a gleaming Universal Kilns ID badge said YOSIL MAHARAL.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

  Ritu didn’t leap into its arms. Her use of the paternal-mimetic greeting meant the Maharal household must have kept real and simulated distinct, even in private. Still, her voice quavered as she grabbed a dark gray hand.

  “We were so worried. I’m glad you’re all right!”

  At least we can guess he was all right some time in the last twenty-four hours, I observed quietly, noting the torn garments and cracked pseudoskin. Expiration wasn’t many hours away. Flakes of some outer covering, perhaps remnants of a disguise, peeled off corners of ditMaharal’s face. The ditto’s voice conveyed both tenderness and fatigue.

  “I’m sorry to fret you, Pup,” it said to Ritu, then turned to Kaolin. “And you, old friend. I never meant to upset you both.”

  “What’s going on, Yosil? Where are you?”

  “I just had to get away for a while and work things out. Project Zoroaster and its implications …” ditMaharal shook its head. “Anyway, I’m feeling better. I should have a good handle on things in a few days.”

  Kaolin took an eager step.

  “You mean the solution to—”

  Ritu interrupted. “Why didn’t you get in touch? Or let us know — ?”

  “I wanted to, but I was wallowing in a pit of suspicion, not trusting the phones or webs.” ditMaharal gave a rueful chuckle. “I guess some of the paranoia is still clinging to me. That’s why I sent this copy, instead of calling. But I just wanted to reassure you both that things do feel much better.”

  I faded back a few steps, not wanting to intrude while Ritu and Kaolin murmured, evidently glad and relieved. Naturally, I felt a twinge over losing a lucrative case. But happy endings are never a bad thing.

  Except that I somehow felt uneasy — unsure that anything “happy” was going on here. Despite the prospect of going home with a fat check for half a morning’s consultation, I had that hollow feeling. The one that always haunts me when a job feels unfinished.

  3

  Something in the Fridge

  … or how realAl decides that he needs some help …

  I parked by the Little Venice Canal and keyed myself aboard Clara’s houseboat, hoping to find her at home.

  It suited Clara to live on the water. At a time when most people — even the poor — seem feverishly intent on building up their homes, maximizing both ornate space and possessions, she preferred spartan compactness. The river’s briny tide, its unsteady rocking, reminded her of the world’s instability — which she found somehow reassuring.

  Like those bullet holes in the north bulkhead, streaming rays of summer illumination into the boat’s tiny salon. “My new skylights,” Clara called them, soon after we both managed to wrestle the gun out of Pal’s hands, that time when he broke down right there in front of us, the one and only time I ever saw our friend sob over his bad luck. The very day he got released from the hospital — the half of him that remained — in his shiny new life-support chair.

  Later, as we were about to drive Pal home, Clara brushed aside his apologies. And from that moment she vowed to keep the perforations unpatched, treasuring them as valued “improvements.”

  You can see why I would always come by the boat, too, whenever I feel punctured or let down.

  Only this time, Clara wasn’t home.

  Instead, I found a note for me on the kitchen counter.

  GONE TO WAR, it said.

  DON’T WAIT UP!

  I muttered sourly. Was this payback for the way my zombie-self ditsrupted Madame F’s dinner party last night? Neighborly relations mattered to Clara.

  Then I recalled, Oh yes, a war. She did men
tion something a while back, about her reserve unit being called up for combat duty. For a battle against India, I thought. Or was it Indiana?

  Damn, that sort of thing could last a whole week. Sometimes more. I really wanted to talk to her, not spend the time worrying about where she was and what she might be doing, out there in the desert.

  The note went on:

  PLEASE LEAVE MY WORKER ALONE.

  I HAVE A PROJECT DUE TOMORROW!

  Glancing toward her little sim-study, I saw light rimming the door. So, before departing, Clara must have made a duplicate, programmed to finish some homework assignment. No doubt I’d find a gray or ebony version of my girlfriend inside, swathed in the robes of a virtuality chador, laboring to fulfill some academic requirement in her latest major maybe Bantu Linguistics or Chinese Military History — I couldn’t follow the way her interests kept swerving, like a hundred million other permanent students on this continent alone.

  Me, I was one of a vanishing breed — the employed. My philosophy: why stay in school when you have a marketable skill? You never know when it’ll become obsolete.

  The magnetic latch released silently when I touched it, easing open the door of the study. True, her note asked me stay out, but I feel insecure sometimes. Maybe I was just checking to be sure that my biometrics still had full trust access, throughout the boat.

  They did. And yes, there was her gray, studying at a tiny desk cluttered with papers and data-plaques. Only the legs showed — pasty-clay in texture but realistically shapely. Everything above the waist lay shrouded under holo-interactive fabric that kept bulging and shifting as the ditto waved, pointed, and typed with wriggling hands. Word mumbles escaped the muffling layers.

  “… No, no! I don’t want some commercial hobby simulation of the Fizzle War. I need information on the real event! Not history books but raw debriefing transcripts having specifically to do with bio-crimes like TARP … Yes, that’s right. Real harm done to real people back when war was …

  “I know the trial records are forty years old! So? Then adapt to the old data protocols and … Oh, you dim-witted excuse for a … and they call this artificial intelligence?”

  I had to smile. Mere duplicate or not, it was Clara right down to the soul — cool in a crisis yet capable of great affection. And all too prickly toward the incompetence of strangers, especially machines. It did no good to lecture her that software avatars couldn’t be browbeaten like infantry recruits.

  I found it curious — and maybe a bit creepy — how Clara could assign a duplicate to do classwork, yet never bother to inload the golem’s memories. How does that help you learn anything? All right, I’m old-fashioned. (One of my “endearing” qualities, she says.) Or maybe it’s hard to imagine what keeps a golem motivated, with no promise of rejoining its original at the end of the day.

  Well, you do it too, sometimes, I thought. Didn’t you lend Clara an ebony last week, to help her with a term paper? Never came back, as I recall. Not that I mind.

  I hope we had some good, scholarly fun.

  Though tempted, I decided against bothering the homework-ditto. Clara liked specialists. This one would be all drive and intellect, toiling till its ephemeral brain expired. Again, it comes down to personality. Zingleminded focus on each task at hand, that’s my Clara.

  The houseboat reflected this. In an era when people spend copious spare time lavishly furnishing their homes or building hobby-hoards, her place was severely efficient, as if she expected to shove off at a moment’s notice, heading toward some distant shore, or perhaps a different era.

  Tools were evident, many showing handmade touches, like an all-weather navigation system worked into the grain of a carved mahogany walking stick or a set of formidable, self-targeting fighting bolas wrought from meteoritic nickel-iron. Or the his and hers armored chadors that hung from a nearby coatrack. Decorative outer layers of burnished titanium chain mail covered the real apparatus — a floppy cowl of plush emitters that could transport you anywhere you want to go in VR space. Assuming you had a good reason to visit that sterile digital realm.

  Our matched set of chadors stayed here on the boat — the closest thing to a firm expression of commitment I had from her so far. That and a pair of solido-dolls of us hiking together on Denali — her straight brown hair cropped close, almost helmetlike, around a face that Clara always dismissed as too elongated to be pretty, though I had no complaints. To me she looked grown-up, a real woman, while my own too-youthful features seem forever pinched in a dark moodiness of adolescence. Maybe it’s why I overcompensate, working hard to keep a serious job, while Clara feels more free to explore.

  Otherwise? No clutter of collectibles. No trophies from a hundred battlefields where her combatant dittoselves crawled through shellfire, charging laser positions in her team’s more famous matches.

  At one level, I was involved with a college student. At another level, a warrior and international celebrity. So? Who hasn’t grown accustomed to living several lives in parallel? If humanity has one majestic talent, it’s an almost infinite capacity to get used to the Next Big Thing … then take it for granted.

  I looked back at the note Clara left for me. Her thumbprint, bio-sculpted to resemble a familiar winking leer, marked the end, pointing to a second scrap of paper underneath:

  I LEFT A ME IN THE FREEZER

  IN CASE YOU GET LONELY.

  Her duplication machine — a sleek model from Fabrique Gabon — took up a quarter of the boat’s petite salon. The storage compartment, translucent with frost, revealed a humanoid figure — Clara’s shape and size — presumably imprinted and ready for baking in the kiln.

  Pondering the well-proportioned silhouette, I felt like a husband whose absent wife left a ready-to-heat supper in the fridge. A strange thought, given Clara’s attitude toward marriage. And yes, Clara likes to make specialists. This ivory wouldn’t be big on intellect or conversation.

  Well, I’ll take what I can get.

  But not now. Between one emergency and another, I’d been up for forty hours and needed sleep more than surrogate sex. Anyway, a vague sense of unease gnawed as I drove back to my own place.

  “Did you check on the waiter at La Tour Vanadium?” I asked Nell, parking the Volvo in its little garage. My house computer answered in a customary mezzo-soprano.

  “I did. The restaurant reports that one of their waiters lost his service contract last night, for upsetting clients. They are hiring skilled dittos from another source, starting tonight.”

  “Damn.” This meant I owed the guy. Manual labor contracts aren’t easy to come by, especially at classy eateries, where owners demand uniform perfection from the staff. Identical waiters are more predictable, and employees who are cast from the same mold don’t squabble over tips.

  “Did they give his name?

  “There is a privacy block. But I’ll work on it. Meanwhile, you have ongoing cases. Shall we go over them while imprinting today’s duplicates?”

  Nell’s tone was chiding. Our normal routine had gone completely off-kilter. Usually, by this hour I’d have already turned out copies to run errands and make inquiries while the rig went back to sleep, napping to conserve precious brain cells for the creative side of business.

  Instead of collapsing into bed, I headed for my kiln unit and lay down while Nell thawed several blanks for imprinting. I looked away as they slid into warming trays, doughlike flesh puffing and coloring as millions of tiny achilles catalysis cells began their brief, vigorous pseudolives. Today’s kids may take this all for granted, but most people my age still find it a little unnerving, like seeing a corpse waken.

  “Go ahead,” I told Nell, while neural probes waved around my head for the critical phase of imprinting.

  “First, I’ve been fending off Gineen Wammaker all morning. She’s anxious to talk to you.”

  I winced as tickling sensations began dancing across my scalp, comparing my ongoing Soul Standing Wave to the basic ground state stored in memory.
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  “The Wammaker job is done. I completed the contract. If she’s gonna quibble over expenses—”

  “The maestra has already paid our bill in full. There are no quibbles.”

  Blinking in surprise, I almost sat up.

  “That’s not like her.”

  “Perhaps Ms. Wammaker noticed that you were abrupt with her this morning, and subsequently refused her calls. That could have put you in a position of strength, psychologically speaking. She may worry that she provoked you once too often, perhaps losing your services for good.”

  Nell’s speculation had some merit. I felt no desperate need to keep working for the maestra. Relaxing again, I felt the tetragramatron’s sweep intensify, copying my sympathetic and parasympathetic profiles for imprinting.

  “What services? I said the job is done.”

  “Apparently she has another in mind. Her offer is our top-standard fee, plus ten percent for a confidential consultation early this afternoon.”

  I pondered it … though you really aren’t supposed to make crucial decisions while imprinting. Too many random currents surging in your brain.

  “Well, if playing hard-to-get works, make a counter offer. Top-standard rate plus thirty. Take it or leave it. We’ll send a gray if she accepts.”

  “The gray is thawing as we speak. Shall I also continue preparing an ebony?”

  “Hm. A bit expensive, if I’m making a gray anyway. Maybe he can finish with Wammaker early and get home in time to help.”

  “That should suffice for casework. But we still need a green—”

  Nell paused abruptly.

  “I’m receiving a call. An urgent. From someone named Ritu Lizabetha Maharal. Do you know this woman?”

  Again, I barely refrained from sitting up, ruining the transfer.