by David Brin
“I met her this morning.”
“You could have told me.”
“Just pipe it in please, Nell.”
A wall screen lit up, showing the slim face of Vic Kaolin’s young assistant. Her real skin flushed taut with emotion, not at all like the relieved expression I last saw an hour ago.
“Mr. Morris … I mean Albert …”
She blinked, realizing that I lay supine in the kiln. Many folks consider imprinting private, like getting dressed in the morning.
“Forgive me for not getting up, Miss Maharal. I can interrupt if it’s urgent, or call you back in a few—”
“No. I’m sorry to disturb you while you’re … It’s just that I — I have terrible news.”
Anyone could tell as much from her expression — bleak and grieving. I hazarded a guess.
“Is it your father?”
She nodded, tears welling.
“They found his body in …” She stopped, unable to proceed.
“His rig?” I asked, shaken. “Not the gray ditto I met, but the real … your father’s dead?”
Ritu nodded.
“C-could you please send a you over here, right away? Send it to the Kaolin estate. They’re calling this an accident. But I’m sure Dad was murdered!”
4
Gray Matters
… or how Tuesday’s first ditto suffers a setback …
Running subvocal commentary.
Notes-as-we-go.
If this body of mine were real, a passerby might see my lips move, or hear a low whisper as I tape this. But talking into a microphone is irritating and inconvenient. Folks can listen. So I order all my gray ditto blanks with silent-record feature and a compulsion to recite.
Now I am one of them.
Damn.
Oh, never mind. I’m always just a bit grumpy getting up off the warming tray, grabbing paper garments from a rack and slipping them over limbs that still glow with ignition enzymes, knowing I’m the copy-for-a-day.
Of course I remember doing this thousands of times. Part of modern living, that’s all. Still, it feels like when my parents used to hand me a long list of chores, saying that today will be all work and no play … with the added touch that Albert Morris’s golems have a high chance of getting snuffed while taking risks he’d never put his realbod through.
A lesser death. Barely noticed. Unmourned.
Ugh. What got me in this mood?
Maybe Ritu’s news. A reminder that true death still lurks for us all.
Well, shrug it off! No sense brooding. Life’s fundamentally the same. Sometimes you’re the grasshopper. Some the ant. The difference now is that now you can be both, the very same day.
While I donned a scratchy gray jumpsuit, real-me got up from the padded scan-table and cast a glance my way. Our eyes met.
If this me makes it back here to inload tonight, I’ll remember that brief moment of contact from both sides, worse than staring deeply in a mirror, or bad déjà vu, which is one reason why we do it seldom. Some folks get it so bad, they try never to meet themselves at all, using screens to shut themselves off from the golems they make. Others couldn’t care less — in fact, they find their own company charming! People are various. Humanity’s great strength, I hear.
Fresh from imprint, I knew exactly what my organic archetype was thinking at that moment of eye contact. A rare bit of envy. Wishing he could go see the beautiful Ritu Maharal in person. Maybe offer some help or comfort.
Well, tough, Albert. That’s what I’m for. She did ask for a ditto, after all. A high-quality gray.
Don’t worry, boss. All you gotta do is inload me later. I’ll get continuity and you’ll remember every detail. Fair exchange. Trading one day’s experience for an afterlife.
Transport is always troublesome on busy days. We have just one car, and archie holds onto it, in case he has to go out. Got to keep the rig body safe from rain and hard objects. Like traffic hazards. Or bullets.
Too bad, since he usually stays home in bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, “investigating” cases by roaming the Net, paying for research scans with a flick-ident of our retina. So the Volvo mostly sits in the garage. We dittos get around by bus or scooter.
There are just two scooters left, and we made three golems today. So I have to share the little Vespa with a cheap little green who’s heading downtown on errands.
I drive, of course. The greenie rides behind, silent as a wart, as we putt-putt all the way to the rendezvous where Ritu’s sending a car to meet me. There’s a small park, just off Chavez Avenue. Shady enough for a ditto to wait without melting in the sun.
I stop the scooter, leaving the motor running. Greenie slides forward to grab the handlebars as I dismount. Smooth maneuver. Done it lots of times.
He takes off without looking back. Tomorrow I’ll remember what Greenie’s thinking right now. If he makes it home. Which seems doubtful as I watch him weave through traffic, slipstreaming a delivery van. Ack, you can lose a perfectly good scooter that way! I really should drive more carefully.
Standing here, waiting for the car from Universal Kilns, I close my eyes and feel summer’s warm languor. My grays need good senses, so right now I can smell the nearby pepper tree as kids in long pants clamber the rough branches, shredding musty bark and shouting at each other with the sober intensity that children bring to play. And roses and gardenias — I inhale complex fragrances through sponge-sensor membranes, feeling almost alive.
Not far off, more than a dozen hobbyists can be seen, crouching in broad sun hats, indulging a passion for gardening — yet another way to pass time in a world without enough jobs. It’s one reason I chose this place for pickup. The local horticulture club is superb. Unlike my neighborhood, where nobody gives a damn.
I glance around to make sure I’m not in anybody’s way. Parks are mostly for archies. The kids are all real, of course. Most folks only copy a child in order to teach rote lessons — or to send an occasional me-gram to Grannie. Some parents are reluctant to do even that, fearing subtle damage to growing brains. Such conservatism may fade as we take the technology for granted, like any other routine miracle.
(I hear that some divorced couples are pioneering new styles of visitation. Mom lets Dad take Junior’s ditto to the Zoo, then refuses to inload the kid’s happy memory, out of spite. Yeesh.)
Most of the adult caregivers in the park are rigs, too. Why not? You can fire up a clay copy and send it to the office, but when it comes to hugs and tickles, flesh has no substitute. Anyway, it makes you look bad, sending your child out tended by a purple or green. That is, unless you hire a poppins from one of the Master Nannies — a status symbol few can afford at this end of town.
… wait a sec … The phone just rang. I pick up my portable to listen in as Nell answers. She passes the call to my real self.
It’s Pal. I can see him in the tiny display, propped in a big wheelchair, his half-paralyzed face surrounded by wish sensors. He wants me to come by. Something’s up. Too sensitive to explain over public netwaves.
My rig answers in a grumpy voice. Been awake two days. (Poor guy.) Can’t come in person and too tired for another imprinting.
“I’ve got three dits out on errands,” I hear me tell Pal. “One of them will drop by your place, if time allows.”
Huh. Pal lives downtown. Just a few blocks from the Teller Building. He couldn’t have mentioned this sooner?
Three dits? The green won’t be up to handling Pal, and I can’t picture Gineen Wammaker letting the other gray escape early, so it’s probably up to me. I’ve got to go console and consult poor Ritu Maharal — while cops glare and mutter about “meddling private eyes” — then take a stinking crosstown bus to hear Pal rant his latest conspiracy theory till I’m ready to expire. Great.
Ah. Here’s the car from UK. It’s no Yugolimo, but nice. Driver’s a stolid-looking purple — all focus and reflexes. Good for delivering you safely. Not someone you’d go to for sage advice about personal relat
ionships.
I get in.
He drives.
City streets roll by.
Pulling out a cheap slate, I dial up something to read. The Journal of Antisocial Proclivities. There are always new developments to keep up on, if you want to stay employable in your field. My real brain always dozes when I try to read this kind of stuff. Good at concepts, but the Standing Wave drifts. So I pay extra for gray blanks with good attention foci.
I never would have made it through college without those dittos I sent to the library.
Wait a minute.
I lift my gaze from the article when the triple domes of Universal Kilns pass by on the right, then fall behind. We must be heading somewhere else. But I thought -
Ah, yes. Ritu never actually mentioned UK. She said “the Kaolin estate.”
So, I’ve been invited to the great one’s sanctum, after all. Well, lade-da.
Let’s go back to reading about the use of pseudo-incarceration in Sumatra, where it seems they’re using multi-dittoing to simulate a twenty-year prison sentence in just two. Saves money and chastens the wicked, or so they say. Yuck.
The next time I look up, we’re driving through an exclusive neighborhood. Big houses beyond tall hedges. Mansions perched at the end of long drives, each one bigger, more impressive, and better protected than the one before it. My left-eye sensors trace guardian fields lining the tops of walls. Decorative spearheads mask sleep-gas jets. Mock ferrets squat in trees, watchful against interlopers. Of course, none of it would keep out a real pro.
The Kaolin Manor entrance looks unassuming. No garish protections. The best are unseen.
We flow straight through, then up a curving drive.
It’s a big stone chateau, surrounded by meadows and old trees. A few modest outbuildings, gardens, and hedge-sheltered guest cottages can be seen, off to one side. The gardens are disappointing. Nothing special. Few of the rare specimens I’d plant, if I were rich. Then I spot an architectural anomaly — a mirrorlike dome covering the roof of one entire wing. The sanctuary that a famous recluse retired to, years ago, leaving the rest of the mansion for servants, guests, and golems. Apparently, Aeneas Kaolin takes his hermitage seriously.
There’s just a white hospital van parked in front of the main house. I expected official vehicles. Police inspectors. Portable forensic labs. Normal procedure when murder is afoot.
Clearly, Ritu’s notion of foul play isn’t shared by the authorities. Well, that’s why she called me.
A butler sends his copper-colored duplicate to open my door. Another escorts me inside. Nice treatment, seeing as how I’m not real.
I’m inside now, under a vaulting atrium. Fine wood paneling. Nice decorative touches — lots of wall-mounted helmets, shields, and pointy weapons from other ages. Clara would love this stuff, so I freeze a few picts to show her later.
Conversation wafts my way as I’m led to a book-lined library, now serving a more somber function. The splendid oak table bears a cherry-wood casket with an open lid. Somebody’s dear departed, lying in state. A dozen or so human figures are in view, though just two are real — the corpse and a grieving daughter.
I should move toward Ritu, since she summoned me. But it’s a platinum Kaolin-ditto who dominates the scene. Is it the same one I met earlier this morning? Must be, since it gives a nod of recognition before returning attention to a vid call — consulting with underlings and advisers, I reckon. All the onscreen images look worried. Yosil Maharal was a vital member of their organization. Some major project may be in big trouble.
Damn. I half-hoped Kaolin himself would show up for this tragic scene, taking a short ride down from that silvery dome. Maybe he’s a genuine recluse, after all.
A jet black technical specialist finishes waving his wand of instruments over the casket, subjecting the cadaver to cascades of glittering light. The expert turns to Ritu Maharal.
“I have repeated all scans, Miss. Again, there is nothing to indicate your father’s accident had anything to do with foul play. No toxins or debilitating drugs. No needlemarks or infusion bruises. No trace of organic interference. His body chemistry does show signs of extreme fatigue, consistent with falling asleep at the wheel before driving inadvertently over the highway viaduct where he was found. This matches the conclusion of police investigators, who went over the wrecked vehicle and found no signs of tampering. And no indication of other persons, either in or near the car. I’m sorry if this news displeases you. But accidental death appears to be the correct diagnosis.”
Ritu’s face seems carved from stone, her coloration almost ditto white. She keeps silent, even as a tall gray moves close to put an arm around her. It’s a duplicate of her father — the one I met just a couple of hours ago — with a face resembling the corpse. Of course no man-made process can imitate the texture of real skin, durable enough to last decades, yet so worn and haggard-looking after more than half a century of cares. ditto Maharal stares down at his real self, knowing that a second, lesser death will come soon. Duplicates can only inload memories back to the original who made them. The Template Effect. So now he’s orphaned with no home base, no real brain to return to. Only a ticking expiration clock and pseudocells fast running out of élan vital.
In a sense, Yosil Maharal lingers on, able to contemplate his own passing. But his gray ghost will vanish in at most a few more hours.
As if sensing this, Ritu throws both arms around her daddit, squeezing tightly … but briefly. After a few seconds, she drops her arms and lets a matronly green lead her away. Perhaps an old nanny or family friend. Departing, Ritu averts her gaze, avoiding both fathers — the dead and the dying.
She doesn’t see me.
What shall I do? Follow?
“Give her a while,” a voice says.
I turn and find ditMaharal, standing close.
“Don’t be concerned, Mr. Morris. My daughter is resilient. She’ll be much better in half an hour or so. I know Ritu wants to talk to you.”
I nod. Fine. I’m paid by the minute. Still, curiosity is my driver, whether I’m riding around in flesh or clay.
“She thinks you were murdered, Doc. Were you?”
The gray shrugs, looking rueful. “I must have sounded odd this morning, when we first met. Maybe a bit paranoid.”
“You downplayed it. But I felt—”
“—that there must be something? Where there’s smoke, there must be fire?” ditMaharal nodded, spreading his hands. “I was already recovering from my panic when I made this copy. Still, it felt — and feels — like emerging from a spell.”
“A spell?”
“A fantasy of technology gone mad, Mr. Morris. The same fear, perhaps, that Fermi and Oppenheimer experienced when they watched the first mushroom cloud at Trinity Site. Or something like the curse of Frankenstein, long delayed, but now coming true with a vengeance.”
Those words would give my original a case of the shivers. Even as a gray, I experience some visceral dread.
“You no longer feel that way?”
Maharal smiles. “Didn’t I just call it a fantasy? Humanity managed to evade destruction by atom bombs and designer germs. Maybe it’s best to trust that people will take on future challenges with common sense.”
He’s playing it coy, I think.
“Then could you please explain why you went into hiding, in the first place? Did you feel someone was after you? Why change your mind? Maybe your rig had a relapse after making you. The accident suggests sleepless anxiety, maybe panic.”
Maharal’s ghost-ditto ponders this for a moment, meeting my gaze — one gray to another. But before he can answer, Vic Aeneas Kaolin comes striding over, a stern look on his platinum face.
“Old friend,” he tells ditMaharal. “I know this is a hard time for you. But we must think about salvaging what we can. Your final hours should be put to good use.”
“What do you mean?”
“A debriefing, of course. To salvage your work for posterity.”
“Ah. I see. Pressure-injecting my brain with a million meshtrodes, zapping me with gamma rays to make an ultratomograph, then sifting every pseudoneuron through a molecular strainer. It doesn’t sound like a pleasant way to spend my last moments.” Maharal mulls it over, working his jaw with realistic expressions of tension. And I can sympathize. “But I suppose you’re right. If something can be preserved.” ditMaharal’s reluctance is understandable. I sure would hate to go through stuff like that. But how else can anything be retrieved? Only the original human template can inload a duplicate’s full memory. No other person or computer can substitute. If the template’s missing or dead, all you can do is physically sift the copy’s brain for crude sepia images — the only data that’s machine-readable from golemflesh.
The rest — your consciousness Standing Wave, the core sense of self that some call the soul — is little more than useless static.
There used to be an old riddle. Are the colors you see the same as the ones I see? When you smell a rose, are you experiencing the same heady sensations that I do, when I sniff the same flower?
Nowadays we know the answer.
It’s No.
We may use similar terms to describe a sunset. Our subjective worlds often correspond, correlate, and map onto each other. That makes cooperation and relationships possible, even complex civilization. Yet a person’s actual sensations and feelings remain forever unique. Because a brain isn’t a computer and neurons aren’t transistors.
It’s why telepathy can’t happen. We are, each of us, singular and forever alien.
“I’ll have a car take you to the lab,” ditKaolin tells ditMaharal, patting the arm of his friend, as if the two were real.
“I want to be present during the debriefing,” I inject, stepping in.
Kaolin isn’t happy about this. Again, I spot a trembling of his elegantly sculpted hand as he frowns.
“We’ll be covering sensitive company matters—”
“And some of the recovered images may shed light on what happened to that poor man.” I gesture toward realMaharal, lying cold in his coffin. Left unsaid is the fact that I’ve been hired by the body’s sole legal heir. Ritu could sue me for malpractice if I don’t attend the sifting. Legally, she might prevent anyone from dissecting her father’s ghost.