Kiln People

by David Brin

  “… uh … taste this … d’you think they’re watering the benzene?”

  Another step, and I’m beyond the quiet fringe minimum, abruptly staggering under a double-reinforced roar. Screams bellow from the Grudge Pit, where swaggering bravos carve each other while other clients tender themselves as prizes to the winners. The latest victor stands over his steaming victim, crossing both wrists with raised weapons that whirl like spinning scythes, throwing enzyme-soaked gore onto cheering bystanders. Bets are paid with glimmering eye-picts, or wads of stained purple bills. Under their garish skin decorations, you can spot which dismembered dittos were bought at a public kiln for twenty welfare dollars.

  The winner’s triumphant turn brings us eye-to-eye. We lock a gaze briefly and his grin freezes — in recognition? I don’t recall ever seeing his particular pseudoface. The connection lasts but an instant, then he turns back to admiring cheers.

  A similar victory might have won him a chiefdom in some olden tribe. Now, well, at least he gets a moment to pretend. Of course, a real pro like my Clara could eat punks like this for breakfast. But she has better things to do right now, two hundred klicks away at the front lines, defending her country.

  The RESERVED light goes dark when I sit where I’m expected, wondering how Clara’s war is going. Part of me feels sick that I’ll never see her again. Though of course I will, as soon as one army or the other wins … or else when combat breaks up for the traditional weekend truce. realAlbert had better be good to her, or I’ll come back from wherever golems go, and haunt the lucky bastard!

  “What’ll it be?” a waitress asks. A special model, resembling the other Irene-copies, but voluptuous, with big hands for carrying trays.

  “Just a Pepsoid. With ice.” My grays are self-sufficient, but it’s hot in here and an electrolyte boost won’t hurt. On Wammaker’s expense account.

  Turns out that I’m near another sonic fringe. If I lean to one side, I can slip my head into a zone of relative silence, damping out the thudding music and shrieking battle cries, leaving only dribbles of chatter from the booths.

  “… What’re you smoking? Izzat buckyball-black? Can I sniff?”

  “… Did you hear they closed the Pithy Pendulum? Health spectors found a zhimmer virus in the filters. Your infected ditto brings it home and WHAM! Next thing, your rig’s drooling in a psycho ward …”

  “… I love that bug-eye look! Are they functional?”

  Wordless sounds of ersatz passion also carry. Through haze, I glimpse couples and trios writhing in alcoves. And if your body plan won’t fit your partner’s, the management rents adapters.

  “Hush,” I tell the table, which erects a curtain of white noise, quashing the surrounding din. “Give me news from the war front.”

  “Which war?” a voice buzzes, silicon-based, not clay. Specifics are needed. “Five major matches and ninety-seven minor league events are currently in progress around the globe.”

  Ah. So who is Clara fighting, this week? I should pay closer attention to the standings. If this were a sports bar, the contest would be on a big screen, twenty-four hours.

  “Um, try the combat range nearest town.”

  “The Jesse Helms International Combat Range lies two hundred and fifty-four kilometers south by southeast. This week, the Helms Range is proud to host a return match between the Pacific Ecological Zone of the United States of America and the Indonesian Reforestation Consortium. At stake are iceberg harvesting rights in the Antarctic—”

  “That’s it. How’s the PEZ team doing?”

  A holo image spreads across the table, zooming toward sunburned mountainy terrain demarcated by sharp boundaries. Outside, beyond a palm-treed resort oasis, lies a protected landscape of desert mesas. Inside: a pocked and tormented patch of Mother Gaia that’s been sacrificed for the sake of the rest. A vast cousin of the Rainbow Lounge, where human drives are channeled, with far more at stake.

  “Pacifican forces made significant territorial advances during Monday’s initial action. Casualties were low. But IRC tribunes assessed a number of penalties that may cancel out these gains …”

  Sparkles flash before me as the POV drops closer to Earth. Sparkles that seem rather gay-looking, till you recognize rocket-artillery barrages and fierce laser strikes. Clara works in a realm of awful killing machines that could wreak horror if they ever spilled beyond the world’s combat ranges. I’m torn between zooming toward the front lines or swerving to that tree-lined oasis, at the border. Only -

  — someone barges suddenly through the wispy privacy screen, blocking half the holo image.

  “So, it is you.” A figure stands before me, tall and snake-skinned. “How convenient.”

  It’s the gladiator I saw just minutes ago in the Grudge Pit, exulting over a steaming victim. He looms closer, purple hands still swathed in wet clay grue, like some brutal potter.

  “How’d you get out of the river?” he demands.

  All at once, I realize it’s the rowdy who blocked my way last night, on Odeon Square! Only that had been his archie back when I was green, trying desperately to escape Beta’s yellowdits.

  “River?” Let’s play innocent. “What makes you think I went swimming? Or that I’d remember you?”

  His fighter-ditto isn’t made for subtle expressions. The face goes rigid as he realizes what he just gave away. Then he shrugs, deciding not to care what his words reveal.

  “You remember me, all right,” he growls. “I saw you jump in. And I know you made it back home to dump.”

  Know? How could he know? Never mind. Modern wisdom says never to be surprised if hidden knowledge leaks. Over the long term, no secret endures.

  Let’s see if he appreciates sarcasm.

  “A golem walking the length of a river! Well, goodness. Anyone who accomplished something like that should be the talk of the town! Maybe you should try jumping in yourself sometime.”

  The suggestion doesn’t sit well.

  “I kept your damn arm. Baked it hard. Want it back?”

  I can’t help smiling as I recall his stunned expression when I left him standing in the plaza gripping my severed wrist. A rare happy memory from a lousy ditto-day.

  “Keep it. Make a nice urn.”

  He scowls. “Stand up.”

  Instead, I yawn and stretch, both posturing and buying time. Courage is conditional. If this body of mine were made for partying, I just might try to slab and spin this guy, for the hell of it. realAlbert, with plenty to live for, would flee such a mad fool without shame. My options are murkier. I’m gray and an orphan, with no chance of continuity but some puzzles I’d like to solve in my remaining hours. All told, I’d rather management came to shoo him off. Alas, not a single red Irene is in sight.

  “I said, get up!” Bully-boy growls, preparing to strike.

  “Do I get choice of weapons?” I ask abruptly.

  Hesitation. He can’t just cut me to bits when I’ve made it a matter of honor. Duels have rules, y’know. And people are watching.

  “Sure. After you.” He gestures toward the Grudge Pit, insisting that I lead the way.

  I need an out before we get there. There are a few tools in my pocket — a small cutter and a cyberscope — but he won’t make the same mistake as last night, letting me strike up close, by surprise.

  Where the hell are my hosts? If I had any idea they were so lax, I’d have made that break earlier! Hit the street. Maybe head for Pal’s. Advise Albert to avoid the maestra in future, like a plague.

  We weave past tables, most of them aglow with shimmering bolos, lighting garish faces. No one looks familiar in the young crowd. Anyway, this character is probably part of the in-group. Flexing my knees a bit lower with each step, I think-prep an enzyme rush while slowing the pace, as if suddenly reluctant.

  As I hoped, my nemesis plants a beefy hand in my back. Gives a push.

  “Go on! The armory’s just ahea—”

  I won’t chance it against his hyped-up reflexes. Instea
d of whirling at him from a fake stumble, I leap sideways and up, landing on a nearby table, kicking aside glasses to slip between the projected holos of two female dancers, rubbing their hips in erotic rhythm.

  I think he yells, but there’s so much noise from upset clients — they reach for me, so I jump again!

  Like a pip, shot from between the gyrating dancers, I fly from that table to another, landing this time amid a swirling maelstrom of jagged virtual scythes, spinning round and round like Death’s personal tornado. It’s so realistic that I cringe, half expecting to be puréed. But my body passes through the illusion, even as more customers scream outrage and glass crunches underfoot. Hands grab an ankle, so I spin-kick, knocking them off.

  Of course the light storm blinds me, too. I can barely glimpse my next target, a table where a gently spinning Earthglobe beckons. I flex -

  — but a sudden force knocks the rickety platform, spoiling my launch. I strike the next table edge-on, rolling in pain amid chairs, kicking feet and broken bottles.

  Blows buffet my left side, driving a groan. My tormentor, or an irritated customer? Rather than look, I scuttle like a crab while groping in a pants pocket for my cutter — too short-range to serve as much of a weapon.

  Uh-oh. Boots ahead. Many. He’s called friends. They’re bending and peering under tables. In moments -

  My hand falls on the base of this table, held to the floor by three heavy bolts.

  Cut them? Why not? Here goes -

  The table wobbles … tips …

  Grab it. Now surge upward!

  They jump back in alarm. It’s not much of a weapon, but with the holo still shining I appear to be brandishing more than a bitty cocktail table! Writhing images extend another two meters, like shining snakes. A flail made of burning light.

  Just light, yet they cringe. Imprinted with barely altered caveman souls, they can’t help seeing a flaming torch. Soon I’m circled by a zone of respect, empty out to the holo’s reach. And now, some spectator voices cheer for me.

  I spot the punk, with pals, all wearing studded black as if they invented the look. Pathetic.

  They clench and snarl. In bare moments, rational evaluation will win out, overcoming cave reflexes. They’ll charge through the cool light. But hemmed by onlookers, what can I …

  All at once the tenor of sound shifts. The thundering dance music vanishes. Angry shouts are damped. Past the sucking whistle of my hyper-breathing, an amplified voice penetrates.

  “ditMorris, if you please …”

  Swerving again, I feint at the bravos. They retreat, perhaps for the last time as their eyes narrow angrily.

  Then, abruptly, they give way — pushed aside by a band of newcomers, small but forceful, using sound-wands to clear a path. Red females, restoring order to their club.

  It’s about time.

  Backing toward the Grudge Pit, the chief punk gives me a final look, surprisingly passionless, even amused or gratified. The pounding “music” returns. Soon, the Rainbow is back to normal.

  One of the Irenes, unapologetic, shakes her ruddy finger.

  “ditMorris, kindly put that table down!”

  It’s hard to comply for a moment. Instinct, you know.

  “Please, no more distractions. You’re expected. The hive awaits.”

  The holo display sputters out and I drop my makeshift weapon. That’s it? No apology for leaving me at the mercy of idiots?

  Oh, stifle the complaint, Albert. It’s not like your life was in danger, or anything important.

  Jerking her crimson head, my guide beckons me to follow her toward the back of the club, then through a plush curtain. Blessed silence reigns suddenly, as the heavy drape falls behind us. Silence so welcome that I sway. It takes several beats before I can think. Then -

  Wait … I’ve seen this room before.

  During the meeting at Studio Neo, one red-clay Irene had been jacked into a screen showing throngs of umber duplicates, fussing around a single pale figure, supine on a fancy life-maintenance couch. Now, up close, I see the real woman lying amid the bustle, staring blankly while tended by one-third scale duplicates. Fluid drips into her mouth. Mechanical arms massage her limbs. The face, though flaccid and distant, is clearly the template for every red I’ve seen running about this place. Her shaved head bears a medusa of writhing cables, leading to industrial strength freezers and kilns.

  A fresh-baked copy emerges, still glowing from the oven. It stretches for a languorous moment before accepting paper overalls, then stepping away, targeted to do some chore without direction or instruction. Meanwhile, another reenters from the outside world, clearly tottering on depleted cells. Without ceremony, two sisters neatly sever the day-old head, dropping it into a memory transfer coil.

  The archie’s pale face winces for an instant during inload. The discarded body rolls off for recycling.

  Some foresee this as our future, I muse. When you can spin off countless copies to perform any task, your durable organic body will serve one function, as a place to deposit memories and pass them on, a sacred prisoner like the ant queen, while bustling workers carry out life’s real activity and savor.

  I find the prospect repulsive. But my grandparents thought the same of basic imprinting. The words “golem” and “ditto” were epithets, till we got used to them. Who am I to judge what future generations will think normal?

  “ditMorris, welcome.”

  I turn. The Irene facing me has the skin texture of a high-quality gray, tinted with her trademark umber glaze. Standing near is the other rox I met at Studio Neo, “Vic” Manuel Collins, with the eye-hurting plaid dye job.

  “You call this welcome? I’d like to know why you left me out there, to be—”

  Collins lifts a hand. “Questions later. First, let us see to your repairs.”

  Repairs?

  Looking down, I see bad news. Deep gashes in my left side! One leg cut more than halfway through along its length and oozing badly. Hopped-up on action enzymes, I felt little.

  Ack, I’m ruined.

  “You can repair this?” My chief emotion is numb curiosity.

  “Come along,” says the nearest Irene. “We’ll fix you up in no time.”

  No time? I ponder in a daze, following. To a ditto, “no time” is a very demanding phrase.

  11

  Ghosts in the Wind

  … as realAlbert does some modern footwork …

  There didn’t seem to be much I could do about my missing duplicates. Gray number two was on autonomous mode; he couldn’t legally contact me, and the maestra might prevent it even if he wanted to. The greenie had sent a weird declaration of independence, before going off on his own. And there was no sign at all of gray number one, who vanished at Kaolin Manor along with a ghost of Yosil Maharal. The Universal Kilns security staff had taken charge of that mystery, sifting the estate for any sign of both missing dittos. So far to no avail.

  I didn’t expect them to achieve much. It’s easy to smuggle a rox in a box. Millions, cushioned mummylike in CeramWrap, get shunted all over the city each day by truck, courier, or pneumatic tube. And it’s even easier getting rid of a dead one — just flush the remains into a recycler. Without a pellet, one batch of golem slurry is no different than any other.

  Anyway, I had investigations to take care of, including one for a client who was willing to pay top rates. Ritu Maharal wanted me to look into the mysterious death of her father. As legal heir, she could now access his records, from credit purchases to calls from his wrist phone. Maharal’s movements during time spent working for UK were another matter. But when Ritu asked Vic Aeneas Kaolin for those chronicles, the tycoon assented, grudgingly, to keep her from going public with “wild stories” about her father being murdered.

  The permissions came through soon after I finished making an ebony specialist, tuned for total focus on professional skill. That duplicate went right to work, waving its arms and chattering rapidly under the muffled folds of a virtual reality chador,
immersed in a world of rapidfire data-globes and zooming images. All logic and focus, the ebony could handle the rest of my caseload for the time being, letting me concentrate on one task — discovering where Yosil Maharal spent the last few weeks.

  Never mind what cyber marketeers say about their fancy autonomous search programs. Data-sifting is an art. We may live in a “transparent” society, but the window glass is frosted and foggy in countless places. Peering through those patches can take skill.

  I started by setting up a digital avatar — a simple software representation of myself — and launching it through the publicam network. Though less intelligent or flexible than a creature with a Standing Wave, it carried some of my expertise combined with a relentless drive to hunt down any images that Yosil may have left while traveling on city streets. Ritu gave me about sixty solid sightings to start with — places he was confirmed to have been at exact times. The avatar zoomed in on those space-and-time coordinates, then tried to follow the scientist as he moved from one recorded scene to the next. Gradually, a map began to fill in, detailing his movements during the months before he died.

  Often, that kind of search is enough, all by itself. Few people have a knack for evading the publicam mesh.

  Alas, Maharal must have been one of them. Indeed, he proved wily at escaping from view, almost at will. My avatar’s search left a chart with many gaping holes, some lasting a week or more!

  Ritu’s pockets were deep and she wanted answers fast. So I put out bids for sightings by privately owned lenses, which are far more numerous than public cameras. Restaurant security scanners, window-ledge lurkers, newsbugs, amateur sociologists, even nature lovers and urban sporting clubs — anyone whose sensors might have spotted Yosil when he was out of publicam range. Since Ritu owned her father’s copyright now, there wasn’t even a voyeur tax. Low bids poured in. I let the avatar haggle and choose enough pix to fill in Yosil’s trail.