Kiln People

by David Brin

  “I can also replay a recording of the final call your original made, to Ritu Maharal, arranging a joint trip to investigate her father’s cabin in the desert.”

  What was that? A trip, together?

  I trembled suddenly. A trip with Ritu Maharal … to the desert? Abruptly I saw a glimmer, an outline of what could have happened. How Albert might have departed in person, under the guise of a ditto!

  If he did, was it because he suspected the house was under surveillance by assassins? If so, the ploy worked. He sure fooled everyone into believing his real self was still there. I had to absorb this stunning notion. There could be a flaw … but Albert might not be dead, after all!

  Good news, right? It’d liberate me from a heavy burden — sole obligation to uncover the truth. For all I knew, right now Al and a dozen of his loyal copies were already hard on the trail of the villains, closing in with grim determination to avenge his incinerated garden.

  And yet … the idea also brought with it a sense of letdown. For a while, I had actually felt important. As if this little sliver of existence somehow mattered on the grand scale of things. Justice seemed to depend on me. On what I chose to do.

  Now?

  Well, my duty’s clear. To report, of course. To describe everything I’ve learned and offer my services to my betters.

  But it’s nowhere near as romantic as fighting on, alone.

  I decided what to do while watching Clara poke through the ruins, apparently far more concerned with uncovering Albert’s fate than taking part in her war. If Al was alive, he hadn’t even bothered to contact her. Not even to let her know he was all right!

  Maybe he preferred the company of the beautiful heiress, Ritu Maharal.

  Bastard.

  Sometimes you only see yourself clearly by standing on the outside. Or better yet, by becoming someone new.

  All right, that brings me up to the present. My story’s done. I’ll submit one copy for the cache … in case there are any Alberts running around who care to listen.

  And I’ll send an abbreviated report to Miss Ritu Maharal. She was Albert’s final employer, just before the missile attack, so I guess she deserves to be told that I think Aeneas Kaolin has gone murderously insane.

  But I’m really doing it for Clara. She’s the reason why I stood here under this chador for ten extra minutes, rapid-reciting a first-person narration of everything I’ve seen and done for the last couple of days, leading all the way to this moment. Doing it despite entreaties from Pal’s little ferret-ditto, warning that each added second exposed us to danger. Either from Kaolin or some unknown enemy, maybe even worse.

  Whatever. My report probably won’t matter. I’ve uncovered only a few pieces of the puzzle, after all. Far from enough to solve the case, for sure.

  Maybe I just duplicated work that’s already been done by other, much better versions of “me.”

  Hell, I don’t even know where I’ll go next … though I do have a few ideas.

  Still, I can tell you one thing, Clara.

  As long as this small patch of soul continues, I’ll remember you. Till the recycling tank finally claims me, I’ve got something … and someone … to live for.

  33

  Lasting Impressions

  … realAlbert gets to view a parade in still life …

  Wow.

  This place is amazing.

  I really must switch to realtime, in order to describe what I’m seeing right now.

  Even so, can I begin to do it justice? Especially having to grunt into a tiny recorder-implant that I borrowed from a dead golem. An implant that may not even be functioning properly?

  And yet, what can I do except try? Not many people get to witness this spectacle. Not without getting their brains wiped clear of the memory, right afterward.

  An entire army stands at attention before me, divided by rank and specialty into squads, platoons, companies, and regiments. Casting long shadows in the dim light, row after row of sturdy figures extends into the distance. Neither living nor quite lifeless, silent in the chilly dry air of a deep subterranean cavern that must stretch for kilometers, each soldier abides sealed by a thin layer of gel-wrap to maintain freshness, awaiting an order that may never come — a command to turn on the lights and fire up nearby kilns, rousing a clay legion from its sleep.

  Corporal Chen says they have a motto in this corps — Open, bake, serve … and protect.

  That touch of whimsy — a note of self-deprecating humor — reassures me. A bit. I guess.

  Oh, it’s not too much of a surprise. There have always been rumors of a secret stash — or more than one — where the nation’s real military power is kept, dormant but ever ready. Surely the generals and planners in the Dodecahedron know that twenty little reserve battalions, like Clara’s, won’t suffice if real war ever returns. Everyone assumes that those gladiator-entertainer units represent the tip of the iceberg.

  Yeah, but to see it now, with my own eyes …

  “Come on,” says ditto-Chen, motioning for us to follow his apelike form. “This way to that secure dataport I promised.”

  Ritu’s been wiping her face with a cleanser towel to remove ragged leftovers of gray makeup ever since we entered a tunnel leading deep under the vast military complex. Only now the towel hangs from a limp hand as she stares at endless ranks of golem-soldiery, standing watch in their filmy, shrink-wrap cocoons.

  “Amazing. I can see why they would build such a facility here, under the surface base, so the warriors who train up there can readily imprint spare copies for this stockpile force. But I still don’t understand.” She waves at the rigid brigades standing before us. “Why do you need so many?”

  With a shrug, Chen resigns himself to the role of tour guide.

  “Because the other side may have made even more.” He takes a bowlegged step toward us. “Think about it, Miss. It’s cheap to dig holes. So is making an army of pre-imprinted dittos. You don’t have to spend anything on food or training. No insurance or pensions and very little maintenance. We have good intelligence that it’s been done in over a dozen other countries, some of them unfriendly. The Indies have their force in a big cave under Java. The Southern Han, the Guats, and the Gujarats all have mega-hordes tucked away underground. After all, who could resist the temptation? Imagine having available a military force bigger than the Prussians fielded at the Marne — one that can be mobilized and transported across the world within hours. With every trooper fully prepared, carrying the skills and experience of a battle-hardened veteran.”

  “It’s scary as hell,” I answer.

  Chen nods in agreement. “So we gotta have the same thing — a corps of defenders, ready to rise from the ground at a few hours’ notice. At one level, it’s simply a matter of outditting the enemy.”

  “I mean the whole situation is scary. This kind of insane arms race—”

  “Arms, legs, torsos … don’t quibble. Call it diterrence — making sure the other guy knows he’ll get hurt bad if he ever tries to throw us a first strike. The same logic worked for our ancestors, way back in the age of nukes, or we wouldn’t be here now talking.”

  “Well, I think it stinks,” Ritu comments.

  “Amen, Miss. But till the politicians finally get around to negotiating a treaty — one with real teeth for onsite inspections — what else can we do?”

  It’s my turn to pose a question.

  “What about the secrecy. How can it be maintained in this day and age? The Henchman Law …”

  “… is designed to bring out whistle-blowers. True enough. Yet no insider’s tattled openly about this buried army. And the reason is simple, Albert. The Henchman Law is aimed against criminal activity. But don’t you think the brass in the Dodecahedron went over the legalities carefully? They never denied having a reserve defense force. There’s nothing heinous or illicit — no real people have been hurt in any way — so there’s no ‘whistle-blower’ reward. What good will it do anybody to reveal this place, then?
All he’d get for the trouble is a lien slapped against his lifetime earnings, to help pay the cost of moving our golem corps to a new site.”

  Chen looks at Ritu and me archly.

  “And that holds for you two, by the way, in case you’re getting any self-righteous notions. We don’t mind private rumors. Go ahead and blab generalities and exaggerations to your friends, if you like. Just don’t put any pix or location details on the Net, or you could wind up deep in debt, making monthly payments to the Dodec. For life.”

  The very moment that he said that, I was using the implant in my left eye to snap-record a scene. For private use, I rationalized.

  Maybe I should erase it.

  “Now,” Chen insists. “Let’s get you to that secure portal I promised.”

  Still a bit numb from the corporal’s slanted threat, Ritu and I follow him silently past more rows of modern janissaries, silent as statues, most of them dyed in blur-pattern camouflage. Up close, you can see how big these combat-golems are! Half-again normal size, with much of the difference consisting of extra power cells, for strength, endurance, and to operate enhanced sensoria.

  Though most of the figures are thick-limbed and broad-shouldered, I keep looking for Clara’s face. Surely she would have been asked to be among the templates, imbuing her skill and battle spirit into hundreds, maybe even thousands of these duplicates. I feel miffed that she never told me … at least not about the scale of all this!

  Ritu continues pressing Chen as we walk.

  “It seems to me there’s a danger beyond that of foreign adversaries. Isn’t this legion something of a temptation to those holding the keys? What if the Dodecs — or the President or even the Protector in Chief — ever decide that democracy is too damned inconvenient? Imagine a million fully equipped battle-golems spilling out of the ground like angry ants, capturing every city in a coup—”

  “Wasn’t there a thriller about that exact scenario, a few years back? Good effects and lots of cool action, I recall. Hordes of ceramic monsters, marching about stiff-limbed, shouting in stilted voices, blasting everything in sight … except the hero, of course. Somehow they kept missing him!”

  Laughing, Chen waves a long arm at the companies surrounding us. “But honestly, it’s pretty far-fetched. Because every one of these doughboys was imprinted by a licensed citizen reservist, strictly according to regulations. They have our memories and values. And it’s kind of hard to stage a coup when all your grunts are made from guys like me — and Clara — who happen to think democracy’s just fine.

  “Also there are coded autodestructs, with the ciphers distributed to—”

  Chen stops, shaking his head. “No, forget all the safeguards. If you can’t have faith in procedures and professionalism, then consider logic.”

  “What logic is that, Corporal?”

  Chen pats the plastic-sheathed flank of a nearby war-golem, perhaps one containing a duplicate of his own soul.

  “The logic of expiration, Miss. Even augmented with extra fuel, a battledit like this one can’t last more than five days. A week, tops. I defy you to come up with a way to hold onto those captive cities, after that. No small group of conspirators could imprint enough replacements. And no large group could possibly keep such an undertaking secret nowadays.

  “No, the purpose of this army is to absorb the first shock of an enemy surprise attack. After that, it’ll be up to the people to defend themselves and their civilization. Only they can provide enough fresh souls and raw courage to throw into an extended conflict.”

  Chen shrugs. “But that was true way back in Grandpa’s day, and his grandpa before him.”

  Ritu has no ready answer for this and I manage to keep silent. So Chen turns again to lead us rapidly past more regiments, one perfectly arrayed unit after another, till we lose count of their serried ranks, awed by the vast hall of mute guardians.

  Ritu’s especially uncomfortable here. Edgy and distant, unlike the easy companionship of our trek across the desert together. Part of it may have to do with her own trouble in making dittos — never able to predict what will happen when she imprints. Sometimes everything goes normally — the Ritu-golem emerges enough like her to share the same ambitions and perform assigned chores, then return at day’s end for routine inloading. Other copies vanish mysteriously, only to send back cryptic taunting messages.

  “Can you imagine what it’s like to be mocked by someone who knows every intimate thing you’ve ever done or thought?”

  “Then why imprint at all?” I asked, during our long walk together across the wilderness.

  “Don’t you see? I work at Universal Kilns! I grew up in the claynamation trade. It’s what I know. And to do business nowadays you have to copy. So I kiln a couple of golems each morning and hope for the best.

  “Still, whenever it’s an urgent appointment — or something has to be done right — I try to handle it in person.”

  Like this trip to investigate her father’s cabin — and the nearby site where he died. When I invited Ritu, she decided to invest a day of real lifespan. Only now we’ve been sidetracked for several, ever since that wretched “Kaolin” ambushed us on the highway. Stuck far from town, out of contact and only slowly nearing our goal. It must be frustrating for her …

  … as it is for me. To come all this way and find Clara’s gone AWOL, having dashed off to poke at the ruins of my house while I’m stuck in the boonies. Dammit, I hope we reach that secure portal of Chen’s soon. I have got to find a way to get in touch -

  At last!

  The columns of clay soldiery finally come to an end. We emerge from the silent host, only to pass under bigger shadows — row after row of towering autokilns, presently idle, but primed to fire up quickly and bake freshly unwrapped warriors in giant batches, stimulating their élan storage cells into vigorous activity, sending whole divisions to self-sacrifice and glory.

  Corporate brand logos loom over us, embossed proudly on these mechanical behemoths. No symbol is more prominent than the circled U and circled K. Yet Ritu doesn’t seem proud, just nervous, rubbing her shoulders and arms, her eyes darting left and right. Her jaw is set and tense, as if walking is an exercise of pure willpower.

  Now Chen leads us through a sliding gate into yet another vast chamber where innumerable suits of armor dangle on hooks from the tracked ceiling. A forest of duralite helmet-and-carapace combos, ready to slip over bodies still puffy from the oven. We have to sidle along a narrow avenue between tracks, our shoulders brushing metal livery and leggings, jostling sets of refractory coveralls into ghostly motion.

  I can’t help feeling dwarfed, like we’re children, tiptoeing through a dressing room for giants. This chamber’s even more intimidating than the assembly of golem-soldiers. Maybe because there’s no soul here. That ditto-army was human, after all. Well, a kind of human. But this armory has the chill impersonality of gears and silicon. Empty, the suits remind me disquietingly of robots — deadly unaccountable, and free of anything like conscience.

  Fortunately, we make good time. Minutes later, we’re on the other side, and I’m glad to be out of there!

  No sooner do we emerge from the “dressing room” than Chen beckons me to join him at the rail of a balcony. “Albert, you’ve got to see this! You’ll find it interesting, if Clara’s been any kind of influence on you.”

  Joining him at the rail, I find the terrace overlooks yet a third immense gallery, some distance below this one, containing the greatest hoard of weapons I ever saw. Everything from small arms to flame guns to personal helico/raptors can be seen arrayed in neat stacks and or piled on shelves — like a huge emporium of destruction. A central library of war.

  Chen shakes his head, clearly wistful.

  “They insist on keeping the best stuff down here, in reserve. Just-in-case, they say. But I sure wish we could use this gear topside, during some of our regular matches. Like against those Indies we’re fighting this week. Tough bastards. It’d be great if—”

&nb
sp; The ditcorporal stops abruptly, arching his simian head to one side.

  “Did you just hear something?”

  For a second I’m sure he’s pulling my leg. This eerie place seems perfect for a haunting.

  Only then … Yes, a faint murmur. I hear it now.

  Scanning below, I finally glimpse figures moving down there amid a distant row of shelves. Some are jet black and others the color of steel, carrying instruments and clipboards, peering amid stacks of warehoused killing apparatus.

  Chen whispers a curse. “Shards! They must be doing an audit! But why now?”

  “I think I can guess.”

  He looks at me with dark eyes under heavy, apelike ridges. Abruptly, comprehension dawns.

  “The hoodoo missile! The one that fried your archie and your home. I figured it for another homemade job, like urban punks and criminals make in their basements. But the brass must suspect that it was stolen from here. Damn, I should have thought of that!”

  What can I say? The possibility occurred to me a while ago. But I didn’t want to spook Chen when he’s being helpful.

  “Why would anyone in the military would want me dead? I admit, Clara’s threatened to break my arm a few times …”

  The joke goes flat. Chen’s ape-ditto writhes.

  “We gotta get out of here. Right now!”

  “But you promised to take us—”

  “That was when I thought the place’d be empty! And before it occurred to me that military hardware might be involved. I’m sure not takin’ you straight into a team of tight-ass rule enforcers!” Chen grabs my arm. “Let’s get Miss Maharal and—”

  The sentence falls flat as we both turn and stare.

  Ritu had been right behind us.

  Now she’s gone. The only vestige is a rustling commotion along one long row of hanging armor coveralls — a fading wavelet in a rippling sea of shrugging torsos and helmets that nod and bow politely in her wake.