Kiln People

by David Brin

  Chilly cryosteam shrouded thick, insulated cables, snaking between the van and the back door of the building, where kitschy organ music filled the dim interior. Warily, I stepped over the cables into a cavernous chamber where several dozen cloaked forms could be made out, swaying to dirgelike harmonies.

  “What’re they doing?” Pal asked snidely. “Filming a new episode of Vincent Price Theater?”

  I was keenly aware of what happened in this place, only yesterday, when these creatures managed to fool one of Albert’s best grays, tricking him into letting them plant a fiendish bomb in his gut. If they could manage that, a miserable frankie like me had better be careful. Under my skin-deep dye job, I was still humble green.

  Adjusting to the light, I saw that all the robed forms wore the same distinctive reddish shade as the one who barred the front door to the Rainbow Lounge. All except a central figure lying on a raised dais, who looked so pale that I first assumed it must be an ivory ditto.

  But no, the supine shape was a real person, with sparse patches of gray hair sticking out amid clusters of attached electrodes. Silky red cloth covered much of her heavy, flaccid form. Most people today strive to keep their organic bodies in good shape. (Getting enough of a tan to not be mistaken for a pleasure-golem!) But some folks have just one use for the body they were born in — to serve as a memory vessel, passing impressions from one day’s set of dittos to the next. Evidently, Irene had been on the cutting edge of this trend. No wonder she ran a popular emporium dedicated to fashionable excess!

  And yet, from the requiem sounds reverberating all around, I had to guess that Irene’s life — large as it may have been — was finally coming to an end. Her chest rose and fell unevenly beneath the coverlet. Tubes dripped medicinal liquids while a nearby metabolic monitor beeped to a soft, erratic meter.

  I saw no kiln. No rows of waiting ditto blanks. So, she wasn’t busy making ghosts, as some do when they know they’re dying — a final spate of autonomous duplicates to handle last-minute details … or to say all those things you never dared to utter while alive. Most of these Irene-copies looked rather elderly. They all might have been present when grayAlbert had his “repairs.”

  Did Irene stop duplicating herself at the same time, or soon after? A very odd coincidence, if it was one.

  Watching from the shadows, I saw one Irene standing aside from the corny threnody ceremony, conversing with a purple golem whose huge eyes and stylishly curved beak resembled those of a hawk.

  “Horus,” Palloid muttered.

  “Horace?”

  “Horus!” He gestured at the visitor’s bright robe, covered with inscriptions and fancy embroidered figures. “Egyptian god of death and afterlife. Kinda pretentious, by my taste.”

  Of course, I thought. Final Options. One of those outfits offering specialized assistance to the dead or dying. If there’s a hypothetical service anybody might want, you can find a million of the bored-unemployed eager to provide it.

  I edged closer while hawkface explained items in a glossy brochure.

  “… Here’s one of our more popular options. Full cryonic suspension! I have facilities to imbue your archetype’s organic body with the right combination of scientifically balanced stabilization agents, then begin reducing its temperature till we can deliver her to our main storage facility in Redlands, which has its own deep geothermal power supply, armored against anything short of a direct cometary impact! All your rig has to do is imprint a release—”

  “Cryonic suspension doesn’t interest us,” replied the red golem, representing her hive. “It has been verified repeatedly that a frozen human brain can’t maintain a Standing Wave. It vanishes, never to return.”

  “But there are memories, stored in nearly a quadrillion synapses and intracellular—”

  “Memories aren’t homologous — not the same thing as who you are. Anyway, most of those memories can only be accessed by a functioning copy of the original Standing Wave.”

  “Well, dittos can be frozen. Suppose one accompanies the original head into storage. Then someday, when technology has advanced sufficiently, some combination of—”

  “Please,” the red Irene cut in. “We aren’t interested in science fiction. Let others pay high fees to serve as your experimental guinea pigs. We want a simple service, the reason we called your company.

  “We choose the antenna.”

  “The antenna.” The purple hawkman nodded. “I’m required by law to say the technique is unverified, with no confirmed successes, despite many claimed resonance detections—”

  “We have reason to believe your past failures resulted from a lack of concentration, desire, focus. These we’ll provide, if you do your job as advertised.”

  Horus straightened.

  “The antenna, then. I still need a release. Please have your archetype put her life-imprint here.”

  He pulled a heavy, flat rectangle out of the folds of his robe, tearing off a filmy plastic covering that released a dense, steamy cloud. The red ditto took the tablet gingerly in both hands by its edges, careful not to touch the moist surface.

  “I’ll return in a few minutes. There are preparations to complete.” Horus spun away toward the van amid a flourish of glittering robes.

  Palloid and I watched the red emissary pass through a crowd of her sisters, who parted with no apparent signal. She stepped up to the dais, holding the tablet high over the pale figure lying there. The original, pale-skinned Irene reacted by lifting one hand, then another. She’s conscious, I realized.

  Gently, two dittos approached from opposite sides to restrain her.

  Lower came the tablet, closer to that sallow face till her warm breath condensed droplets on the surface. She inhaled deeply, then the red ditto pressed the clay slab down, quickly and with enough force to warp it around realIrene’s head … holding it there a few seconds, till a near-perfect mask formed — mouth agape in a reflex gasp.

  No breath was needed in the short time it took for the raw clay to transform before our eyes, rippling swiftly through several color spectra — including some hues that ancient hermits used to seek in far corners of the world, during the long dark era before soulistics. The mouth area, especially, seemed to flicker briefly with faint lightning.

  Then the solid mask lifted away, leaving realIrene ashudder but unharmed.

  “I always hate having to do that,” Palloid muttered. “Goddam lawyers.”

  “Signatures can be forged, Pal. Same with fingerprints, cryptociphers, and retinal scans. But a soul-seal is unique.”

  Irene now had a binding contract with Final Options, to spend the last moments of her organic life buying something else, something she considered more precious. Well, well. Here’s to the Big Deregulation. The state has no business getting in between you and your spiritual adviser, especially when it comes to that decisive choice — how to make your final exit.

  Too bad poor Albert never had any say in the matter. Partly thanks to Irene, I bet.

  Palloid swiveled and grew tense on my shoulder. I turned in time to notice a figure approach us from one side. It was another red ditto, looking a bit ragged like the others, but still formidable. “Mr. Morris.” She bowed her head slightly. “Is it you? Or another? Shall I introduce myself?”

  “None of the above,” I answered, not caring if the cryptic answer confused her. “I know you, Irene. But I’m not the fellow you blew up last night.”

  She answered with a resigned shrug. “When I saw you, just now, I couldn’t help but hope.”

  “Hope? For what?”

  “That the news reports somehow lied. I hoped you were the same ditto that left here yesterday.”

  “What are you trying to pull? You know what happened to that gray. You murdered him. Blew him up inside Universal Kilns! Only his final act of heroism prevented your bomb from ruining the place.”

  “Our bomb.” The red nodded resignedly. “So people will say. But honestly, we thought we were implanting a spy apparatus, tu
ned to sense and evaluate experimental soul-fields in the UK Research Division—”

  “Oh, what a pile,” Palloid commented.

  “No, truly! News of the sabotage attack on UK came as a complete surprise. It showed how fully we were used. Betrayed.”

  “Right. Tell me about betrayal!”

  Oblivious to sarcasm, she nodded. “Oh, I shall. We at once realized that an ally set us up to take the onus for this vicious attack, as part of a multilayered defense, to protect the true villain from retribution. Even if your gray’s obscuring tactics had been perfect — even if he masked his trail, cutting all direct links leading back to his employers — a crime of such magnitude would not go unsolved. Universal Kilns will spare no expense to find those responsible. So, after several layers of decoys are peeled back, we were positioned to take ultimate blame.

  “Are you the first harbinger of penalization, ditto Morris?”

  “Oh, I may be a harbinger all right, but I’m not Morris,” I muttered, so low she didn’t notice.

  “We are a bit surprised to see you,” the red ditto conceded. “Instead of UK Security, or the police. Perhaps they follow soon? No matter. We’ll no longer be here. We are departing shortly, while still able to choose the manner of our going.”

  I wasn’t swallowing it.

  “You claim innocence about the prion bomb. What about the attack on realAlbert, slaughtering him in his home?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “The mastermind behind all of this — our common enemy, it seems — had to cover his own role after using us. That meant leaving no loose ends. He killed you a bit more swiftly than he killed me, but just as ruthlessly. In short order, you and I will both be no more.

  “That is, on this plane of reality,” she added.

  I glanced at the dais, which had been rolled much closer to the van. Hissing cryo-cables were being attached to a dense array of sifter tendrils, piled around the pale head of realIrene. “You’re committing some kind of fancy suicide. That’ll leave you unable to testify as a full person in a court of law. Are you sure you want to do that? Won’t it only benefit your former partner, who betrayed you? Shouldn’t you help catch and punish him?”

  “Why? Revenge doesn’t matter. We were dying anyway … a matter of weeks, only. We took part in his scheme as a desperate gamble, hoping to stave off that fate. We trusted, gambled, and lost. But at least we still have some choice in the manner of our passing.”

  Palloid snarled. “Revenge may not matter to you, but Albert was my friend. I want to get the bastard who did this.”

  “And I’m sure we wish you luck,” the red sighed. “But this villain is a renowned master at evading accountability.”

  “Was it that Vic Collins character the gray met?”

  She nodded. “You already know him by another name.”

  With a sinking feeling, I guessed.

  “Beta.”

  “Quite. He was unamused by your raid on his operation in the Teller Building, by the way. That cost him dearly. But the plan to use Albert Morris in this ploy had been brewing for some time.”

  “And a deeper plan to use you.”

  “Acknowledged. We saw the collaboration as a clever attempt at industrial espionage. A chance to pirate some first use of the hottest new dittotech, before it went through the cumbersome licensing process.”

  “Hot new dittotech. You mean remote dittoing?” It was the cover story they had told the gray.

  “Please. That interested Maestra Wammaker, but it’s a minor matter, mentioned only to throw off the scent. I suspect you already know what we were looking for.”

  “Golem-renewal,” Palloid suggested. “A way to make ’em last. Can I guess why? Your archie’s memory is full, or nearly so.”

  “Full?” I asked.

  “Too many inloads, Albert. Irene here has been duplicating so heavily, taking full memory dumps from every ditto she makes, that she’s reached a limit most people only speculate about.” He asked the red. “Tell me, how many centuries have you lived in subjective time? A thousand years?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might. To science,” I answered. “To help others learn from your mistakes.” But I could already see the futility of any altruistic appeal. This person, no matter how old, wasn’t going to be moved by anything but her own good. “So you heard rumors about the renewal process and figured that giving your dits a longer span would—”

  “—let you put off the inevitable, right?” Palloid rushed on. “And Beta’s part in the alliance must’ve felt logical, too. He sells cheap knockoffs of expensive pleasuredits. Renewal would let him extend the life of his stolen templates. Maybe even switch from sales to lucrative rentals!”

  “That’s how he explained it to us. Beta seemed a natural ally to help steal this technology. I … we still can’t figure out what he hoped to gain by destroying Universal Kilns.”

  “Well, he didn’t succeed!” Palloid snapped. “Thanks to Albert outsmarting him at the end.”

  I wanted to snort. It seemed dubious how far the gray “outsmarted” anybody! But I kept it in. “Whatever Beta’s reason, I’m sure he’ll try again.”

  Irene nodded. “Probably. But that will soon be of no concern to us.”

  Past her shoulder, I saw that preparations were nearing completion. Chilly vapors flowed around the dais and massive high-sensitivity sifters focused around realIrene’s gray-haired skull. Her breathing was labored, but her eyes lay open and focused. Soft sounds gurgled and I wondered if she might be trying to speak … that is, if she even retained the ability. For so long, she had used other eyes and ears, hands and mouths, to interact with the world.

  Horus was back, having changed into a new robe — a blue one with circular mandala motifs. He fussed over the big array of sifter tendrils while red Irene dittos arrayed themselves nearby, like petals of a flower. All of them now wore standard electrode mesh caps.

  “Yeesh,” Palloid commented. “They’re gonna inload back into her all at once! I’d get such a headache, doing that.”

  “She must be used to it,” I answered, turning for confirmation to the red we had been talking to. But she was gone! Without comment or salutation she had left to rejoin the others. I hurried after, grabbing her arm. “Wait a sec. I’ve got more questions.”

  “And I have an appointment to keep,” she answered tersely. “Be quick.”

  “What about Gineen Wammaker? Was she involved in the plot? Or was that someone else disguised as her?”

  The red grinned.

  “Oh, isn’t our modern era wondrous? I could never tell for sure, Mr. Morris. Not without doing a structural soul analysis. It sure looked and acted like the maestra, didn’t it? But now I must go—”

  “Come on, you owe me!” I demanded. “At least tell me how to find Beta.”

  She laughed. “You have got to be kidding. Good-bye, Mr. Morris.”

  The red turned to go, then swiveled when I reached for her arm again. She glared. Needles protruded suddenly from blood-colored fingertips, glistening liquidly … with something much stronger than knockout oil, I suspected. Beyond her, I glimpsed the ceremonial event approaching its climax. Horus was murmuring some mumbo jumbo — about how every soul must eventually upload into the true Original, the source of all souls, way up there in the universe.

  I had an inspiration. “Look, you’re still seeking some kind of immortality, isn’t that right, Irene? The attempt to steal renewal-tech from UK was a bust and cops will be here soon. So you’re planning to try something else. Blast your Standing Wave outta here. Pow. Straight into the ether, with all the force of a micro-fusion plant! Apply the neuro-electric surge of organic brain-death to multiply the punch. And use up all your dittos at the same time, like solid rockets, to help the spirit get launched. Am I right?”

  “Something like that,” she said, backing up warily, toward where a final mesh cap waited, dangling near the dais. “There are raw rhythms out there in space, Mr. Morris. A
stronomers detect subspectral similarities to a Soul Standing Wave, only crude, unformed. Like fresh golem clay. The first minds to successfully impose their waveforms might—”

  “Might amplify unimaginably, becoming God! Yeah, I heard of that notion,” Palloid marveled, leaping off my shoulder and scampering forward, shouting. “This I gotta see!”

  I hurried on, talking quickly. “But listen, Irene, didn’t all the old religions promise afterlife as a reward for virtue? You think technology can replace it. Fine. But what if you’re wrong? Did you ever consider that the old-timers might be at least partly right? What if some kind of karma or sin or guilt clings to you, like drag on a wing—”

  “You are trying to plant doubts,” she hissed.

  “They’re already planted, in the ditto standing before me!” I said. “Maybe you shouldn’t add such thoughts to the purity of the hive. You could stay behind and help me. Make up for some of the harm you’ve done. Lift the burden a bit. Help the rest of the hive by remaining here and atoning—”

  Something in what I said triggered a flare of violent emotion.

  “No!”

  She screamed a curse, swiping at me with her claws, then turning to speed toward the dais … only to brake hard when she saw a small, ferretlike form, standing upright amid the crowd of supine red forms. Between glittering teeth, Palloid clutched an electrode mesh cap. The last one. With its cable torn out.

  The red ditto howled with such rending despair that I marveled at the implications.

  I thought a “hive drone” would have low personal ego, like an ant. Or a worker bee. But Irene is exactly the opposite! Every part of her desperately wants continuity. A roaring, frantic ego was the source of Irene’s strength, and her downfall.

  Horus looked upset by the disturbance. Some of the other reds were opening their eyes.

  “Come on,” I urged the one still standing, who quivered as Palloid chewed the mesh cap to bits. Her dark eyes looked wild.

  “Help me find Beta,” I implored. “It could tip the balance of karma—”

  With a cry, she swiveled around — I had to leap back to avoid another swipe of glittering claws — then she spun farther and ran outside, darting over cables into the alley beyond. Soon we heard thumping noises.