Kiln People

by David Brin

  “Enough!” I cried. For a brief time it had been enthralling to watch the platinum golem of a multi-trillionaire get sucked into a shouting match with a ferret-formed creature from dittotown. But Pal’s lack of anything like a sense of self-preservation can get unamusing rather quickly. We still existed on this guy’s sufferance.

  “So you think this attack may have been in revenge for your consistent support of the Crudity Bill?” I asked. ditKaolin shrugged. “It passed in Farsiana-Indus, last year. That makes twenty-six countries, and the Argentines vote next month. Degenerates may see a worrisome trend, toward a time when our adjunct selves are actually calmer and better than we are—”

  “—You mean sexless and boring—”

  “—helping to elevate humanity instead of debasing us,” Kaolin finished, giving Palloid a scowl that declared the debate over. And my small friend took the hint this time. Or maybe it was the arrival of our car, delivered to the portico by a blank-faced yellow whose only personality trait was a soft melody that he kept humming while holding the driver-side door for me, then as he jogged away, hurrying to catch a jitney cab back to headquarters.

  I adjusted the pilot seat and Platinum Kaolin gave me a portaphone with a secure comm number to call, if anything especially urgent came up. Otherwise, I was instructed to send a dictated report to his hi-pri box every three hours, for automatic summarization-transcription.

  I was about to shut the door when Pal’s little weasel-ditto leaped from my shoulder onto Kaolin’s! The silvery golem flinched as Palloid squirmed around his neck. “Incredible texture,” crooned the miniature ditto. “So realistic. I been wondering …”

  It seemed about to give Kaolin a big kiss. Then, without warning, Palloid whirled and sank its gleaming teeth into that shimmering neck, just above the collar line!

  Twin wounds oozed a pasty grue.

  “What the hell?” Pain and anger flushed as Kaolin swept a fist that Palloid dodged easily, vaulting through the car’s open window into my arms. Licking shiny-reflective gore off serrated jaws, he spat with distaste.

  “Clay! Patooie. Okay, he’s fake, after all. Had to check, though. He could’ve been pretending to be phony.”

  It was vintage Pal. Authority figures bring out the worst in him. I hurried to mollify our employer.

  “Sorry about that, sir. Uh … Pal likes to be thorough. And that is an awfully realistic-looking body, you must admit.” ditKaolin fumed.

  “What if I had been in disguise? That goddam thing could have maimed me! Besides, it’s none of your bloody business how I choose to present myself! I have a good mind to—”

  He stopped abruptly, taking a deep breath. The lacerations ceased oozing after a couple of seconds, turning into hard ceramic crust. Between dittos, this was a trifle, after all.

  “Oh, get out of here. Don’t bother me again unless you find something interesting.”

  Pal responded cheerily, “Thanks for a lovely visit! Give my regards to your archety—”

  I peeled out of there, cutting off Palloid’s clever remise. Passing through the front gate into city traffic, I cast a sharp, disapproving glare at my companion.

  “What?” The ferret face grinned back at me. “Tell me you weren’t curious, looking at such a fancy-realistic golem! There are all those stories. About how nobody’s seen his archie in years.”

  “Curiosity is one thing, Pal—”

  “One thing? Hey, at this point it’s about the only reason I have to keep going. Know what I mean?”

  I did, alas. Even though I had been granted an extension — double the lifespan I expected to have yesterday, when I stepped out of the kiln — a day is still only a day. To a frankie or a ghost.

  What could I accomplish in that time? Maybe some justice. Or a little revenge on the villains who murdered poor Albert. Those can be satisfying accomplishments. But you can’t take them with you beyond the recycling tank.

  Curiosity, on the other hand, has a timelessness that no deadline can erase. There are worse things for a man to live for, whether he’s born of woman or kiln. It can sustain you, whatever happens and no matter how low your fortunes sink.

  “Anyway, Albert. Did you see the look on skinny’s face when I bit him?”

  “Hell, yes, I saw it! You little—” I shook my head. The image of Kaolin’s vain countenance still surfed the foamy veneer of my Standing Wave. That expression of affronted shock was -

  — hilarious.

  I couldn’t help but guffaw. Laughter shook us both while I swerved the little cruiser through a yellow light, incurring another four-point infraction to put on our UK expense account. Mirth combined with the fizzing sense of renewal that still permeated my invigorated clay flesh. It left me feeling more alive than I had in, well, hours!

  “All right, then,” I said at last, trying to concentrate on my driving. We were in Realtown and there might be children about. No time for inattention at the wheel.

  “Come on, Pal. Let’s see what’s happening at Irene’s.”

  What was happening was death.

  A crowd milled near the entrance to the Rainbow Lounge. All sorts of garishly colored dittos — specialized and home-modified for pleasure or ritual combat — shifted and murmured in confusion, denied entry to their favorite hangout by ribbons of glare tape that shimmered to eye-hurting rhythms, sending keep away messages straight to the golem fibers threading their clay bodies.

  A female-shaped red stood in the entryway. Wearing dark glasses. Explaining patiently as Palloid and I drew near.

  “… Let me say again, I’m sorry, but you cannot enter. The club will soon be under new management. Till then, you must find another place to pursue your frantic pleasures.”

  I looked her over. Exaggerated curves seemed to cry out slutty waitress, while recessed needles under the nails indicated a bouncer’s capacity to enforce order, whenever customers got rowdy. This had to be one of the worker drone members of Irene — the colony-being we heard described in grayAlbert’s recited diary. She matched the depiction, except for looking haggard and worn, obviously tottering on her last energy stores.

  Some customers drifted off, hoping to find another dive open at this hour. One offering as much amusement. I saw grimness in their haste. Especially the dittos with spiky appendages for fighting or exaggerated sexual display. That kind is often made by addicts — experience junkies who need regular fixes of intense recent memories, the more extravagant or violent the better. If these dits fail to bring home the goods, their originals won’t take them back. Their chance of continuity-through-inloading depends on finding excitement elsewhere, anywhere.

  Still, more customers kept arriving, milling about hopefully or trying to argue with the red bouncer. Would she stand there in the doorway till she melted? From the testimony of Albert’s luckless gray, I had an impression that Irene took inloading very seriously.

  “Let’s try around back,” Palloid suggested from my shoulder. “According to the gray’s recording, that’s where this hive keeps its queen.”

  Its queen. I’ve heard of such things, naturally. Still, it’s creepy. Hives and queens, man. Some say we’re all heading that way, eventually, by the inherent logic of dittotech.

  Interesting times, all right.

  “Okay,” I told my small comrade. “Let’s go back and have a look.”

  26

  Souls on Celluloid

  … or how realAlbert finds an oasis of the heart …

  Ritu and I were rather wrinkled and worn after a long night and a morning spent trekking across arid desert.

  You might expect that our gray disguises would look much worse than “wrinkled.” But fortunately, the best brands of makeup don’t clog your natural pores. Instead of blocking perspiration they actually wick it away, maximizing the cooling effects of any passing wind. Dirt and salt crystals work their way outward. In fact, they say the material keeps you cooler and cleaner than exposed skin.

  That’s fine, so long as you have plenty of w
ater to drink. Which became a problem twice during our long hike south from the ravine where the Volvo had crashed. Each time our carry-jug ran low in the middle of some great expanse, with no civilization in sight, I wondered if the trek was such a good idea after all.

  But despite the appearance of lonely desolation, today’s desert isn’t the same one our ancestors faced. Whenever we ran low on water, something always came up. Like when we came across an area dotted with abandoned squatters’ huts, more than a century old, perched on crude cement slabs with rusting steel roofs. One had ancient shag carpeting, so thick with dust that it sported a thriving shade ecosystem. The cabin’s clogged plumbing offered a cistern where we managed to refill the jug with scummy rainwater, unappetizing but welcome nonetheless. Another time, Ritu found a drip pool just inside a defunct mineshaft. I wasn’t happy about drinking the mineral-steeped brew, but modern chelating treatments should eliminate any toxins, if we made it to civilization promptly.

  So, while our trek was an adventure — often miserably uncomfortable — it never became a matter of life-or-death. On several occasions we spotted the glint of a robotic weather station or the dun-colored housing of an ecowebcam. So calling for help was always an option if we got into serious trouble. We had good reasons not to call. It was a matter of choice. That made the journey bearable.

  In fact, Ritu and I found enough spare energy to pass the time as we trudged along, continuing our conversation about recent dramas and parasensies we had seen. Like the classic cliché you see all the time — a duplicate claims to be the “real one,” accusing some imposter of taking over his normal life. On a higher plane, we had both seen Red Like Me, the docudrama about a woman whose permanent skin condition made her look unbrown — unreal to most people — so she couldn’t go anywhere without being treated as a golem. We all put up with being “mere property” much of the time, because it all evens out, right? But this heroine never got to take her turn as citizen/master. The story reminded me of Pal, stuck in his life-support chair, unable to experience the world fully except through dittos. The modern bargain isn’t always fair.

  That’s how I learned why Ritu came on this trip in person, instead of sending a gray. It turns out she’s handicapped, too. She can’t make reliable copies. They often come out wrong.

  All right, millions of folks can’t use kilns at all, suffering the disadvantage of just one, linear life. Bigots call them “soulless,” thinking it happens to those who lack a true Standing Wave to copy. The heritable deficit can make it hard to get a job or win a mate. Indeed, today’s heartless version of capital punishment severs a felon’s Bevvisov-nexus, preventing him from imprinting, trapping him forever in the confines of a single body.

  Many tens of millions can animate only crude, shambling caricatures, able to mow the lawn or paint a fence — but no more than that.

  Ritu’s problem is different. She imprints dittos of great subtlety and intelligence, but many are frankies, diverging radically. “When I was a teenager, they’d often come out of the kiln resentful, even hating me! Instead of helping to achieve my goals, some tried sabotaging them, or put me in embarrassing situations.

  “Only in recent years did I reach a kind of equilibrium. Now, maybe half of my golems do what I want. The rest wander off, mostly harmlessly. Still, I always install strong transponder pellets, to make sure they behave.”

  The awkward confession came after we’d been walking for hours, fatigue wearing away her reticent shell. I mumbled sympathetically, lacking the nerve to tell her that I never made frankies. (Till yesterday’s green sent that strange message, that is. And I’m still not sure I believe it.)

  As for Ritu’s problem, my professional readings in psychopathology left room for one conclusion — the daughter of Yosil Maharal had deep psychological troubles that stay mute while she’s safely confined to her natural skin. But dittoing unleashes them with callous amplification. A classic case of suppressed self-hatred, I thought, then chided myself for diagnosing another person on slim evidence.

  This explained why she accompanied me in person, Tuesday evening. It was clearly important to help investigate her father’s old desert lodge. To ensure it got done right, she must come the old-fashioned way.

  A lot of our conversation — including this confession — was recorded on the little transcriber planted under the skin behind my ear. I felt bad about that, but saw no way to stop it. Maybe I’ll erase that part later, when I get a chance.

  The Jesse Helms International Combat Range.

  From a distance, it looks like a fairly typical military base in the desert — a green oasis dotted with swaying palms, tennis courts and resort-scale swimming pools. The barracks for quartering troops during wartime seem appropriately spartan — tree-shaded cabana-style residence bungalows in muted pastels, cloistered near cybersim stations, practice arenas, and zen contemplation gardens. Everything needed by soldiers seeking to hone their martial spirit.

  In stark contrast to those stoical training grounds, brash hotels jut skyward near the main gate, serving journalists and fight aficionados who converge in person for each major battle. Killwire barriers keep out reporters and flitting hobbycams, so the warriors inside may concentrate without interruption. Preparing their souls for battle.

  Far beyond the oasis, under a natural hillock surrounded by tire ruts, lay the underground bowels of the base — a support complex never viewed by millions of fans who dial in for each televised clash. Below reside all the special weapon fabricators and customized golem-presses required by a modern military. Another subterranean mound, several kilometers away, offers guest facilities to visiting armies who come several times a year to brave weeks of feverish struggle, beyond a range of hills — in the battleground proper.

  “Well, it doesn’t look as if the war’s over,” Ritu commented as we took turns peering through a hand-held ocular, one of a few items salvaged from my ruined Volvo. Even standing on a crest five kilometers outside the boundary, you could tell; the grudge match between PEZ and Indonesia still ran hot. Hotel parking areas were full. And the far southern sky glittered with floatcams and relaysats.

  Oh, something was going on, below that distant horde of buzzing voyeur-eyes, just behind an escarpment of granite cliffs. Sporadic rumbles — like angry thunder — kept spilling over that craggy barrier. On several occasions, powerful booms made the very air throb around Ritu and me. Those detonations escorted flashes of harsh light so brilliant that brief shadows danced across the sun-drenched terrain.

  Something very close to hell was unfolding beyond the escarpment. A fiery maelstrom of death, more violent and merciless than our savage ancestors could have imagined … and you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone alive in our crowded world who felt badly about it.

  “So,” my companion asked. “How do we get in to see your soldier-girlfriend? Do we stroll up to the main gate and have her paged?”

  I shook my head. If only it were that easy. All during our hard slog across the desert, this stage weighed heavily on my mind.

  “I don’t think it’d be a good idea to attract attention.”

  “No kidding. Last I heard, you were a suspect in a major crime.”

  “And dead.”

  “Oh yes, and dead. That could raise a stir when you present your retina for an ID scan. So then. Do you want me to do it? I can rent a room. Let us finally scrape off this makeup.” She gestured at the gray pseudoskin that covered both of us, looking rather weathered after many hours of sun and harsh wind. “I could take a hot bath while you call your friend.”

  I shook my head. “Of course it’s up to you, Ritu. But I doubt you should reveal yourself, either. Even if the police aren’t after you, there’s still Aeneas Kaolin to consider.”

  “If that was Aeneas who shot at us, on the highway. Seeing ain’t believing, Albert.”

  “Hm. Will you bet your life it wasn’t him? Clearly, Kaolin and your father were engaged in something big. Something disturbing. All signs indicate
they had a parting of ways. It may have led to your father’s death on the very same highway where we were ambushed—”

  Ritu raised a hand. “You convinced me. We need a secure web port to find out what’s going on, before letting anyone know we survived.”

  “And Clara’s just the one to arrange it.” I raised the ocular again. “Assuming we cross the next few kilometers and get her attention.”

  “Any ideas how to do that?”

  I pointed left, away from the main gate of the base, toward a ramshackle encampment that ran along the killwire fence, some distance beyond the glitzy hotels. Multicolored figures could be seen moving amid a lurid variety of tents, mobile homes, and makeshift arenas, giving the impression of an anarchist’s carnival.

  “Down there. That’s where we go next.”

  27

  Shards of Heaven

  … as Greenie learns there are worse things than dying …

  Pal’s little ferret-ditto rode my shoulder as we retreated from the shuttered front entrance of the Rainbow Lounge, heading around back to find another way inside. A big security fence blocked the service alley, but I didn’t have to mess with it. The gate was ajar. It must have been left that way when a large van passed inside. We squeezed through, then sauntered past the vehicle, looking it over.

  FINAL OPTIONS, INC.

  That was what the hologo banner said, with angelic cherubs beckoning graciously. A great big dish transmitter on the vehicle’s roof looked handcrafted, rather ornate and much larger than you need for a satellite data link. As we sidled past, my skin tingled, a bit like the recent fizzing sensation of being renewed.

  “A lot of energy in that van,” Palloid commented, arching his back, letting the fur bristle.

  “Have you heard of these guys?” I asked, shivering till we got past.

  “Some. Here and there.” Palloid’s voice was low and terse.