Kiln People

by David Brin

  All right, I thought. Question number one: was “Vic Collins” really Beta, the infamous ditnapper and copyright thief? The red Irene ditto seemed sure. Maybe they had a long and profitable business relationship. And I could easily picture the pragmatic Gineen Wammaker deciding to stop fighting Beta, joining forces with him instead. Weren’t they all in approximately the same trade? Catering to perverse cravings?

  I snap-enabled a link from the strip reader to Irene’s computer, getting quick response when I asked for some standard image-enhancement programs, then used them to zoom on Collins’s features. “Now ain’t that interesting,” I murmured.

  Apparently, Collins used a completely different pattern of plaid design, each of the first five times he sent dits to meet Irene. But on the final three occasions, his skin motif remained the same. Which element is meaningful? I wondered. The earlier variation? Or the fact that he later stopped bothering to change patterns?

  I didn’t have resources to do a mathematical-configuration analysis of the interlocking stripes — determining if some code lay embedded in the complex patterns. It would be just like Beta to wear cryptic clues on his very skin, daring foes to decipher them. Vic Kaolin did have the resources for such analysis, and I was supposedly working for him at the moment. I could have this evidence forwarded to the mogul in seconds, at a spoken command.

  “Zoom in,” I said instead, letting the focus of my gaze control where — the plaid skin on the left cheek of the most recent image of “Vic Collins.”

  I missed Nell. And especially all the wonderful automated tools she kept in her icy core, ready at Albert’s disposal. But with some cheap substitutes, fetched via the Internet, I got a pretty good close-up appraisal of the clay surface, which turned out to be finely molded, with supple, kiln-cured texture. Very high quality. Beta could afford fine bodies.

  Hell, I knew that. This wasn’t significant or new. So? I’m not Albert Morris. What makes me think I can play private eye?

  Before giving up, I decided to point the same tools at earlier images Irene took when Collins first started meeting her in back of limousines. Was it a hunch?

  I stared, blinked, and stammered, “What the — ?”

  The texture was entirely different! Coarser. And this time it featured a myriad tiny protrusions, like goosebumps, row after row, at least a thousand per linear centimeter. Pixel emitters, I realized. Like they weave into smart fabrics that change colors on command. Only these lay flush in normal-looking gray pseudoskin. The plaid pattern was created by these elements; some turned dark, others pale, combining to form an illusion of intersecting stripes.

  So. Even if I used old publicam records to follow Collins back in time, say to the limo rental agency, I’d lose him anyway. There’d come some point, a bit earlier, when he’d vanish in a crowd at some carefully scouted blind spot. Tracing farther back, I’d never see a plaid person arrive because he shifted coloration instantly! I bet Collins even had inflatable prosthetics under the skin, to alter his facial contours just as quickly. No need for the quick-change dyes, putty, and cosmetics Albert used.

  Oh, old Albert had been proud of his own ability to weave in and out of sight, wiping his trail clean. But Collins — or Beta — had him beat by a mile! It was enough to make me laugh or cry for poor Al, who used to fancy himself as Sherlock to Beta’s Moriarty. He was never in the same league.

  All very impressive. But why did Beta stop using his quick-change trick, switching to dittos that were more luxurious but less sneaky? And why did he decide to hire an Albert Morris gray to do the old dodge-and-weave during the attack on UK, instead of handling it himself? I checked all the images again. The last three pictures of Collins were different, all right. You could even see it in his facial expression — a smirk that first seemed natural struck me as feigned in the later images.

  If only the meetings were held here, at the Rainbow! Irene could have made full holo radar scans, recorded voice patterns, word rhythms, hand mannerisms … all the little habits that a man takes along when he copies himself into clay dolls. Cues nearly as individualized as the Standing Wave itself. Did Irene or Wammaker notice any difference? Were they clueless that something had changed?

  That yellow who was melting in the recycling tube, next to the Teller Building … didn’t he claim that some kind of disaster had befallen Beta, even before Blane and I raided the place?

  I glanced at a monitor showing the main floor of the Rainbow Lounge. Pal’s mini-golem was making a party of it, singing along with a raucous tune that played on the dance floor sound system while he kept poking into every conceivable niche and hiding place, adding to a collection of metal parts torn from various portions of the bar. Only a few small streams of noxious fluid appeared to be leaking onto the floor, so far. But at this rate he might demolish the whole place before his internal clock ran out.

  The little mock ferret tapped another decorative cylinder on the bar, peering through it while crooning along to a catchy anthem that had been revered by nihilists long before any of us were born. Rocking back on his haunches, he bayed skyward -

  “Life is a lemon and I want my money back!”

  Hey, I can relate. In fact, I’ve felt that way for well over twenty-four hours. But even if I could somehow get a refund on this so-called life, whose account would I send it to?

  Toggling a switch on the desk, I called down to the lounge. “Pal! You doing okay down there?”

  The driving beat automatically faded as he swiveled around, grinning. “Just great, Gumby, old chum! I found some more secret stashes.” He held up a holopix tube like the one I had found. “My hunch was right! Irene had nailed herself a couple of local council officials to blackmail.”

  “Anything juicy?”

  “Naw. Local interest, mostly. I keep hoping for something on the President, or maybe the Protector in Chief. But all I found in the last one are pictures of kids. Family snaps, not kinkyporn.” Palloid shrugged. “What about you? Anything useful?”

  Useful? I was about to answer no when another of those odd hunches tweaked an off-resonance in my mutated Standing Wave. I signaled Irene’s computer with some rapid eye-wink commands, calling up two images of Collins-Beta — one early and the other late — flicking back and forth between them. “I’m not sure, but I think …”

  The image on the left showed Beta the chameleon, his gray golemskin studded with a myriad tiny pixel emitters tuned to combine into one of those eye-hurting plaid motifs, but capable of changing instantaneously to some wildly different pattern. The other face, on the right, looked similar at superficial scale. But zooming in close, you could see the tartan pattern was simply painted atop normal gray …

  Wait a minute, I thought, noticing some abrasion marks on the most recent Collins golem, near its left cheek. Nothing unusual there. Clay scratches easily and cannot repair itself. You sometimes end a day pitted and cratered, like some moon. But these tiny scrapes glittered. Closer magnification revealed bits of gray surface coating, curling away from a different hue beneath, still metallic-looking, but shinier. Not quite silvery. More of an expensive-looking matte finish, like white gold.

  Or else, maybe, platinum.

  “Yeah?” Palloid shouted up at me. “What is it you think?”

  I didn’t want to say more. Who knew what kind of listening devices Vic Aeneas Kaolin planted in me, when he kindly renewed my lease on pseudolife? Heck, I still lacked any clear picture of his underlying motive for sending me out “to find the truth.”

  Choosing words carefully, I said, “Maybe it’s time you and I got out of here, Pal.”

  “Yeah? And head where?”

  I thought about that. We needed a special kind of help. The kind I never knew existed till yesterday, when I was just a few hours old.

  30

  Apeing Essence

  … realAlbert gets sympathy from a simian simulacrum …

  Fortunately, there was a lot of traffic coming and going to the battle range, everything from big
supply carryalls and triple-decker tour buses to jitneys and sportcycles. Air travel’s tightly restricted though, and the site is far enough from the city that sending a ditto all this way makes little sense. It would only have short time to loiter around before having to head back again.

  True aficionados — and news reporters — are better off coming in person, which explains the row of fancy realfolk hotels, amusement centers, and casinos near the main gate, with their high observation towers gazing at the battleground proper. At night, musicians play impromptu arrangements to accompany the flash and bang effects rising over the escarpment.

  Like I said, it’s a pretty typical military base. Bring the family!

  We hitched a ride the final few klicks, flagging down a ramshackle mobile home with twelve wheels and a wheezing catalysis engine that reeked of illegal petrol conversion. The driver, a big fellow, dark brown with greasy locks, welcomed us aboard with a grunt.

  “I’m not going all the way to the hotels,” he said. “I’ll be turnin’ offroad to the Candidates Camp.”

  “We’re aimed there as well, sir,” I explained with a shallow bow, since he was real while I was pretending not to be. The driver eyed us up and down.

  “You don’t have the look of soldier-aspirants. What kind of model are you, strategists?”

  I nodded and the big fellow guffawed. “Some would-be generals, wandering around lost in the desert!” His deriding tone wasn’t unfriendly, though.

  I now faced yet another problem. As soon as I stepped inside the big van, a small light started flashing in my left eye. For the first time in almost two days, my implant was picking up a useful carrier wave and asking permission to respond. Three tooth clicks and I could be investigating what happened to my burned-out home and why amateur criminalists linked me to a sabotage attempt at Universal Kilns. Above all, in just moments I could be talking to Clara!

  But that little flash also signaled a poison. While passive, my implant wouldn’t give away my position. But the moment it latched in, others would know I still lived … and where to find me.

  Ritu and I settled into a back seat while the driver chattered about the war, which had gone through several stunning reverses, a memorable match drawing attention from all over the globe. Soon he pulled off the main highway and down a rutted track leading toward the chaotic encampment I spied earlier.

  The Candidates Camp is exactly what you’d expect in an age when war is sport and countless people dream of some way to stand out from the crowd. Amid plumes of trampled dust, you quickly sniff the acrid wafting odors of simmering clay emitted by scores of souped-up portakilns, fussed over by aficionados who bray proudly about their special modifications. Crowds gather each time one opens, to stare and criticize as a new monster steps forth, zingularly equipped in ways that could get you arrested or fined in the city. Gargoyles, ogres, and leviathans … spiked, fanged, or clawed … feral-eyed or dripping caustic poisons from their jaws … yet propelled by the ego and soul-stuff of some nerdy hobbyist, woman-born, preening and posing in the background, hoping to be “discovered” by the professionals, just beyond the fence — perhaps even winning a coveted place of glory on the honorable plains of battle.

  Our driver grew more talkative as he maneuvered into a parking space at one end of the encampment. “I wasn’t gonna come out this time, especially after PEZ got off to such a bad start on Monday. Sure looked as if it was gonna be over quick. Good-bye icebergs and hello again water rationing! In fact, I gotta hand it to the Indonesians for coming up with those sneaky little minidit assassin-golems. They sure played havoc with our first-wave troops. But then came our counterattack on Moesta Heights! Did you ever see anything like it?”

  “Wow,” I said ambiguously, eager only to get out as soon as he shut down the hissing engine.

  “Yah, wow. Anyway, I suddenly realized — I got a perfect battle-mod to counter to those Indie minis! So I figured, come out and give a demo. With any luck, I’ll be in the arena soon, making a deal with the Dodecahedron by nightfall!”

  “Well, we sure do wish you luck,” I mumbled while jiggling the doorknob.

  He looked disappointed by my lack of interest. “I had a hunch you two were scouts for the army, but I was wrong about that, wasn’t I?”

  “Scouts?” Ritu asked, clearly puzzled. “Why would the army have scouts outside the battle range?”

  “Go on, get outta here,” the driver said, yanking a lever and releasing the door, spilling us into the hot afternoon.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I jumped to ground and quickly headed south, past a cluster of Winnebagos where families gathered together under a striped canopy, chewing barbecued snacks next to a big holo screen showing recent combat updates. If I were a true fan, I’d stop to check the score and see what odds the touts offered. But I only really care about war during the finals, whenever Clara qualifies.

  I think she likes that about me.

  On one side stood house trailers fronted with fold-down booths selling everything from hand-woven lumnia rugs and wondrous cleaning formulas to aromatic funnel cakes. Beyond the usual Elvis Shrine, clusters of monster truck aficionados sweated under their beloved vehicles, preparing for a rally at a nearby offroad course. There were the usual types of real-life weirdos — clippies and stickies and nudies and people walking about shrouded in opaque anonymity chadors — but all of this was secondary. Fringe stuff to the real purpose of this offbeat festival.

  I was looking for its core.

  Ritu caught up and grabbed my arm, trying to match my rapid pace. “Scouts?” she asked a second time.

  “Talent scouts, Miss Maharal. The reason for all of this.” I encompassed the chaotic encampment with a sweep of one arm. “Wannabes and Trytobes converge here to show off their homemade battle-dits in a makeshift coliseum, hoping the pros will be watching. If army guys see anything they like, they may summon the designer inside the fence. Perhaps make a deal.”

  “Huh. Does that happen often?”

  “Officially, it never happens at all,” I replied while turning and seeking my bearings. “Amateur ditviolence has been deemed an undesirable public vice, remember? It’s sin-taxed and reproved, like drug addiction. Remember how they yammered against it in school?”

  “That doesn’t seem to be slowing it down any,” she murmured.

  “No shit. It’s a free country. People do what they want. Still, the military can’t be seen officially encouraging the trend.”

  “But unofficially?” One eyebrow arched.

  We were passing an arcade where carnies touted all sorts of amusement games and joyrides, most of them mechanical and retro, designed to give a safe but scary thrill to trueflesh. Next door, a long tent sheltered stalls for bio-aficionados to exhibit home-geniformed life forms — the modern equivalent of prize bulls and pigs — amid a clamor of grunts, cackles, and braying cries. Lots of color and atmosphere, all the way down to the homey stench.

  “Unofficially?” I answered Ritu. “They watch, of course. Half the creativity in the world comes from bored amateurs, nowadays. Open source and fresh clay — that’s all folks need. The army’d be stupid to ignore it.”

  “I was wondering how you planned to get from here into the base proper,” she gestured beyond the exhibits and shouting carnies and whirling fun rides to the killwire fence. “Now I get it. You’re looking for one of those scouts!”

  We were close enough to the killwire to feel its soul-distorting currents along our spines. It had to be nearby … the centerpiece of this anarchic fairground. The reason for its being.

  Just then I caught a glimpse of my goal, beyond a big, grimy tent with slobbery elephant seal noises coming from within. A long line of archies stood patiently outside, waiting their turn to enter. But whatever was going on inside — whether violent or massively erotic — I didn’t care, and Ritu quashed her curiosity in order to keep up. I hurried, stepping gingerly past the canvas pavilion with its commotion of loud, clammy grunts.

  Loomi
ng on the other side of the filthy tent stood a spindly structure of horizontal planks and slanting cables, held up by a single tensegrity spire. Several hundred onlookers crowded the grandstand, setting its spiderweb array jiggling each time they stood to cheer or sat back down with a disappointed collective moan. Their broad posteriors, clad in soft fabrics, showed they were all realfolk, with arms and necks tanned stylishly brown in the desert sun.

  Between their cheers and moans came other sounds — howls and bitter snarls echoing from the arena’s heart. Defiant insults, hurled by mouths designed for biting instead of speech. Frenzied impacts and moist tearings.

  Some think we’re going decadent. That all the urban brawlers, the inload-junkies and pseudowars mean we’re becoming like Imperial Rome, with its bloody circuses. Immoral, unbalanced, and doomed to fall.

  But unlike Rome, this isn’t foisted on us from above. A weak government even preaches moderation. No, it rises from below, just another branching of human enthusiasm, unleashed from old constraints.

  So, are we decadent? Or going through a phase?

  Is it barbarous when the “victims” come willingly and no lasting harm is done?

  I honestly had no answer. Who could know?

  The arena’s main entrance bore an archies-only symbol and a wary guardian — somebody’s pet monkey, perched on a stool, armed with a spray bottle of solvent non-toxic to trueflesh. Ritu and I could have slipped inside without harm, except possibly to our makeup. But I still had use for the pretense. So we walked by, seeking a place among the non-citizen onlookers who pressed under the grandstand, peering through a shuffling maze of archie feet. Many of the dittos were combatants, garishly hoofed, taloned, and armored, awaiting their own turns on the gladiatorial grounds.

  It stank down there. Slobbering, grunting, and farting dense colored puffs from their hyped-up metabolisms, contestants exchanged good-natured jibes while swapping bets and opinions about each round of grotesque slaughter. But not everybody. One fellow was actually reading from a cheap web-plaque, through a pair of outsized spectacles perched on his tyrannosaur snout. When a trumpeted blare called him forth to the arena that ersatz dinosaur tossed his lit-plaque to the ground but gently plucked the eyeglasses between two pincers and slipped them onto one plank of the grandstand, between the feet of an archie who picked up the specs and pocketed them without a word.