Kiln People

by David Brin

  Still, I wish they’d just let me drive my scooter to Universal, instead of going through this rigmarole. Amateurs. The rest of my “life” was devoted to them. Doing my professional best to make this ditzy, half-ass spy job work.

  But what if their suspicions are right, and I help prove it?

  If Universal Kilns is deliberately suppressing major improvements in dittotech, the news could be big. Albert’s reputation might skyrocket.

  And I’ll have made him a new enemy. One of Earth’s biggest corporations.

  17

  Graying Gracefully

  … realAl decides on an expedition, a companion, and a disguise …

  Ritu Maharal appeared reluctant to accompany me on a last-minute trip to the desert. But how could she refuse? Hardly any of the reasons that her mother might have used — from modesty to a hectic schedule — have any bearing nowadays.

  “It’s quite a distance along twisty roads,” she said, clearly looking for an out. “There could be delays. If we’re gone more than a day, how will we get home?”

  I had a ready answer.

  “If it looks like we’re about to expire, we can stop at a ditimart and get our heads frozen.”

  “Have you ever shipped your head from a ditimart?” Onscreen, her oval face gave a pursed frown. “The ditsicle can take days to arrive, and it’s never as fresh as the ads claim.”

  “We won’t have to ship. I’ll copy another gray and stash it in the car, to thaw if time runs short. That way I can finish scouting around some more, and still bring the heads back in a cooler.”

  At least, that’s what I told Ritu. In fact, I had other plans. Plans she didn’t have to know about.

  NOHB. None of her business.

  “You’re sure this is important?” she asked, shaking her gleaming black locks a bit petulantly. I wondered; was this major UK stockholder quibbling over the cost of a golem?

  “You tell me whether it is, Ritu. You say you want your father’s death solved, yet you never bothered to tell me that your family owned a cabin by the border, just a hundred clicks from the crash site.”

  She winced. “I should have mentioned it. But honestly, I thought Dad got rid of the place ages ago, before I was sixteen. Do you think it might relate to his … accident?”

  “In my experience, nothing can be dismissed early in an investigation. So please, gather any data you can find regarding that property. And before you imprint, do spend a little time thinking about your childhood trips to the cabin, so your gray won’t have trouble remembering.”

  I often do that — ask the client to think hard about a subject before they send a golem to be questioned. For some reason, most people fail to imprint their Standing Wave completely. The sloppy-copy effect — a kind of swiss cheese amnesia when the ditto tries to access older memories. It never happens to me. My grays even recall some things that I can’t in real form. I wonder why.

  Hesitating another moment, Ritu finally agreed with a jerky nod.

  “Very well. If you think it’s important.”

  “I’m hopeful it may help break the case.”

  She drummed elegant, long fingertips on the desk in front of her screen. “I’m at Universal Kilns right now. Going through some paperwork to keep busy … though Aeneas has given me an indefinite leave of absence.”

  None of that was relevant to my current needs, not on any practical level. Yet I realized, suddenly, that I’d been insensitive. After all, this was about the recent death of her father.

  “Yeah, well, I know it’s a hard time for you. Tell me, did they ever find—” I paused, but there were no better words. “Did they find Dr. Maharal’s ghost?”

  “No.” Ritu stared past the monitor, looking stricken and a bit confused. Her full lips quivered. “There’s been no sign of the ditto. Aeneas is quite upset about it. He thinks your missing gray might have something to do with the disappearance.”

  More likely the other way around, I thought, recalling the lengths Yosil Maharal took, back when he was alive, trying to drop out of sight. Top theory at the moment? My gray must have caught Maharal’s ghost sneaking off. Pursuing, I must have carelessly fallen for a trap.

  I do that sometimes — underestimate the quarry. Nobody’s perfect … and you can get lazy when such mistakes are never permlethal. It kind of makes you marvel at those detectives of olden times, who confronted and confounded remorseless evil while equipped with just one life. Now those guys really had it.

  So gray number one may be a puddle of dissolved slurry right now, sinking into the grass somewhere on Aeneas Kaolin’s mansion grounds. And by now Maharal’s ghost could be … what? Whiling away its last hour or so in seclusion somewhere? Maybe spending it with a hired Wammaker copy, for all I knew.

  Or else, more likely, executing some final chore for its enigmatic maker. Something deep, complex, and possibly nefarious. I couldn’t shake a creepy feeling about that.

  “I’m willing to send another gray to the estate, and help in the search,” I offered.

  “That may not be a good idea right now,” Ritu answered, dubious. “Aeneas wants his own people handling that end. But you and I can still investigate other matters. In fact, this desert trip may be useful, after all. When do we start?”

  Wondering at her change in tone, I nodded.

  “Well, you could make a copy there at UK—”

  “I’d rather do it at home … and pack a few things. Also, there may be some pictures of the cabin in my scrapbook.”

  “That could help.”

  Ritu worked her mouth. “Are you sure this can’t wait till morning?”

  In fact, waiting might be wise. And yet, I felt a growing sense of urgency. A need to get on with the part of my plan that Ritu Maharal didn’t have any reason to know about.

  “I’ll swing by and pick you up by six. That way, we can cross the desert at night and reach mesa country around dawn.”

  Ritu shrugged, appearing resigned.

  “Okay. Here’s my address—”

  “No.” I shook my head. “We’ll meet at your father’s place instead. I’ve been meaning to give it a look-over. We can do that before heading out.”

  I had to pack quickly. The Volvo has an expandable compartment in back, custom-designed to haul up to three imprinted golem blanks in a vac-pac, or just one with a ready-bake kilnette. There’s even room leftover to haul some forensic supplies. I had already prepared a gray ditsicle for the trunk. That left enough time for a makeover.

  I stripped down, stepped into the shower, and asked Nell to gray me.

  “First protect your eyes,” she reminded.

  “Oh, yeah.” I grabbed a container off the shelf and popped out a fresh pair of dark, full-orb contact lenses. I hadn’t done this for a while, so they stung a bit going in.

  “Ready.”

  A tingling sensation began creeping upward, starting with my toes.

  “Spread your legs and lift your arms,” Nell said.

  I complied, feeling a bit creepy as she played a resonance laser over my skin, burning off hairs and dead skin cells in a zillion microscopic protein explosions, closer than a razor could shave. Air jets blew away ash and dross, followed by ion-focused droplets of a special solution, to both seal and nurture my pores during the hours they’ll spend cut off from air.

  Next came the paint job, quick-staining with my own secret formula. In minutes — lacking only some touch-ups with ditspackle — I could pass for a high-class golem. Except under very close inspection. I held off inserting the mouthpiece for a while yet. It can be a bit uncomfortable.

  The procedure’s not exactly illegal — not like disguising a golem to look real in public. But it’s highly discouraged. Someone could shoot me dead when I’m like this, and get off with a mere fine. Small wonder it’s not done very much. Ironically, that’s why a gifted amateur like Yosil Maharal nearly pulled off an inverted version of the same ruse a few weeks ago. Studying those recorded images, my ebony specialist had been lu
cky to spot certain telltale discrepancies in skin texture. Discrepancies I carefully eliminated there in my dressing room.

  Of course I could mention another difference between me and Ritu’s late father.

  When he tried this subterfuge, it was aimed at concealing some dark secret. But my reasons were simpler.

  I was doing it for love.

  Well, it felt that way at the time. Ebony-me even complained about the impulsiveness of my decision to go on this trip in person.

  “You’re acting on emotion. Clara left an ivory in her fridge. That should slake your animal drives till the weekend when she returns.”

  “An ivory’s not the same. Anyway, Maharal’s cabin happens to be near the battlefield! I can’t pass up this opportunity to drop by and surprise her.”

  “Then send your own ivory. There’s no need to go in person.”

  I didn’t answer. The ebony was just being snippy. He knew that Clara and I can take or leave casual dittosex, even with occasional outsiders, because it doesn’t matter. No more than a passing fantasy.

  Because it’s no real substitute for the real thing. Not to us.

  “This isn’t a productive use of time,” said my hyperlogical doppelganger, trying a different tack while I tossed some clothes in a bag.

  “That’s what I have you for,” I retorted. “Be productive! Can I assume our other cases are in hand?”

  “They are.” The glossy black version of me nodded. “But what happens when I expire, less than eighteen hours from now?”

  “Stick your head in the icer, of course. I imprinted another jet, along with a gray and a green, in case you need ’em to take over.”

  Ebony-me sighed, as usual regarding my real self as childish and irresponsible.

  “None of the new dittos will have my recent memories. Continuity will be broken.”

  “Then thaw your replacement an hour early and update him.”

  “With words? You know how inefficient—”

  “Nell will help. Anyway, I should be back before Wednesday’s ebony fades. Then I’ll inload his memories, and yours, from the freezer.”

  “So you say now. But you’ve been distracted before and let brains spoil in the fridge. Anyway, suppose you get killed wearing that foolish disguise?”

  Long fingers, the color of space, reached out to pinch my faux-gray skin.

  “I’ll take every precaution not to let that happen,” I promised, pulling away and avoiding those dark eyes. It’s tough lying to yourself, especially when you’re standing right in front of you.

  “Be sure and do that,” ebony muttered. “I’ll make a lousy ghost.”

  Heading to Maharal’s place, I shut off the Volvo’s hypercautious autopilot and drove manually. Weaving through traffic helped ease my nerves … though some green peditstrians yelled obscenely when I swerved past. All right, I could drive better. Blame my disguise for influencing me subconsciously. Or it could have been the war news.

  “… recent battlefield reversals and heavy casualties have pushed retreating PEZ-USA forces into a pocket, with their backs against the Cordillera del Muerte Mountains. Although the position seems strong for defensive tactics, oddsmakers have already begun offering early buyouts of final outcome wagers, assuming the battle to be lost.

  “If so, and if the disputed icebergs go to Indonesia, this debacle will cast doubt on President Bickson’s plan for staying off the SouthWestern Eco-Toxic Aquifer Plume.

  “Faced with SWETAP-related backlash from voters, congressional leaders have already started gathering e-signatures for a demarchy petition, demanding that Bickson offer terms and cut PEZ losses before their armed force is completely annihilated.

  “But a Glasshouse spokesgolem ruled out that option, insisting that hope remains for victory on the battlefield. ‘It’s all or nothing,’ the Bicksondit said. ‘When it comes to fighting SWETAP, half a berg is the same as none at all.’ ”

  Cursing, I told the radio to shut up. Instead, I asked Nell for a reminder-summary of Yosil Maharal’s personal background.

  Despite having twelve whole hours to research, she hadn’t been able to dig up much about his childhood before arriving as a refugee from one of those nasty little ethnic wars they used to have over in South Asia, after the turn of the century.

  Adopted by distant relatives, the shy boy thrived on schoolwork, showing little interest in social affairs. Later, as a budding scientist, Yosil ignored the fashionable but doomed cyber and nanotech fads, zeroing instead on the virgin field of neuro-ceramics. After Jefty Annonas cracked the mysterious floating wonder of the Soul Standing Wave — more intricate than any genome — Maharal joined a start-up company led by the greatest Vic of our time, Aeneas Kaolin.

  He never married. Maharal’s gene-merging and nurturing agreement with Ritu’s mother originally featured some twisty responsibility diagrams, at one point including a gay couple, an estate management bank, and an heirless cousin. But all of those adjunct- and demi-parents cashed out several years before Mom died in a copter crash, when Ritu was twelve.

  Yikes. And now Daddy’s punched his clock, too. Life ain’t fair. Poor kid.

  I felt a little guilty, pushing her to take this trip. But I had a hunch about this “cabin” of her father’s, and Ritu’s help may be vital. Anyway, if her gray found the journey traumatic, realRitu could just toss away the head without inloading. No memory, no foul.

  Our ancestors, who suffered far more than we do, never had that option.

  A black, all-terrain limousine stood out front of the address Ritu gave me. I sent a scan of the plates to Nell, who replied that it belonged to Universal Kilns.

  So. Good of Kaolin to lend her a limo, I thought. But then, it’s not every day you lose a close friend and your assistant loses a father.

  I parked my battered car behind the gleaming Yugo and headed for the house — a larger-than-average veridian home, without much yard but covered by slanting solarium panes to trap each ray of sunlight, dark plates for photovoltaic energy and green for drip-treating household waste. There were enough of the gleaming sewage cells to serve an active family, but just a few had active algae cultures. In fact, most looked completely unused.

  A bachelor pad, then. And the bachelor spent long periods away from home.

  I mounted fourteen steps, passing between decorative loquots that deserved better care. Pausing next to the poor things, I felt tempted to pull out my cutter and prune some crossing branches. After all, I was early.

  Then I noticed the front door stood ajar.

  Well, I was expected. Still, there was some ambiguity. As a licensed private detective and a quasi-agent of the civil posse, I couldn’t just walk in. By law, I had to announce myself.

  “Ritu? It’s me, Albert.” I left out the grammatically correct ditto modifier, though I came disguised as a golem. Most people are sloppy about it, anyway.

  The atrium floor was speckled from an active-element mosaic skylight, shifting random colors and playing bright-dark tricks on the eye. Ahead, stairs climbed around two landings before reaching the upper story. Glancing left, I saw an open-plan sitting room, furnished in a rather fogeyish cyberpunk style.

  A faint clatter — more like a hurried rustle — came from my right, beyond a set of double doors, carved wood with frosted panels. No lights shone within that room, but a shadow could be made out, moving furtively on the other side.

  A murmur … a few words that I couldn’t hear at all well, sounded like ” … now where would Betty have hidden …”

  Creepiness prickled my spine. I touched one of the doors. The glass was both rough and cool — perfect sensations that reminded me of the chief thing that I must not forget:

  You’re real. So be careful.

  As if I needed prompting! Fey suspicions thrummed my Standing Wave, coursing back and forth between the only organic heart and brain I’ll ever have. As a ditto, I might go barging into the next room, just to see what’s what. But as an organic heir of paranoid cavemen,
I settled for giving one door a shove, then staying well back from the threshold as it swung open.

  I spoke louder. “Hello, Ritu?”

  Inside lay Yosil Maharal’s home office, featuring a desk and bookshelf covered with old-fashioned papertomes and lasersheet folios. One shelf of a display case held awards and honors. Others displayed strange trophies — like an array of mounted hands, ranging widely in size and coloration. Some were sliced open to show metal parts, relics of a time when dittoclay had to be slathered over robot frames, when clanking duplicates were techno-playthings for the rich, at once both crude and awe-inspiring, enabling just an elite to divide their lives and be in two places at the same time.

  An era when dittos were called “deputies,” and those who could afford them seemed ordained to have much bigger lives than the rest of humankind. Before Aeneas Kaolin gave self-copying to the masses.

  It was quite a display. But right then my chief concern lay in the part of the room I couldn’t see, far from the window, steeped in shadows.

  “Lights on,” I tried from the doorway. But the house computer was voice-keyed, barring unknown guests from even courtesy control. Yosil was some host.

  I could try transmitting the command through Nell, asserting my investigation contract with Maharal’s daughter and heir. But the chain of handshakes and probate haggles could take minutes, distracting me the whole time.

  No doubt a conventional light switch lay just yonder, within easy reach … and reach of some lurker-in-the-dark, armed with any weapon my eager imagination could provide.

  Was I being paranoid? Fine.

  “Ritu, if that’s you, just tell me to come in … or to wait outside.”

  I heard a soft sound, within. Not breathing, but another rustle. I felt tension beyond the door. Something like coiled energy.

  “Is that you, ditAlbert?”

  The voice came from upstairs, behind me. Ritu, calling down, without a hint of guile.

  “Yeah! It’s me,” I answered without turning. “Did you … do you have other company?”