Kiln People

by David Brin

  Maybe not.

  I take some hope in that.

  “Very good, Albert,” the mad gray croons, peering at several readouts. “Your observer state profiles are excellent, old friend!”

  He leans over me, trying to meet my gaze.

  “I’ve performed this experiment countless times, Albert, trying to create a self-sustaining soul-resonance between two nearly identical dittos. But my own copies never worked out — the ego field is flawed, you see. Too much self-distrust. An inherited trait, I’m afraid. One that’s often associated with genius.”

  “Even if you do say so yourself,” I reply. But Yosil ignores the dig in order to press on.

  “No, my own golem-selves would never do. The first thing I needed was somebody who copies cleanly. That’s why I started grabbing your dittos, years ago. But it wasn’t easy, especially at first. I almost blew it several times and had to destroy your grays, rather than let them get away. You forced me to learn a whole new suite of sneaky skills, Albert. But eventually we were able to start serious work.

  “And we made good progress, didn’t we?”

  He pats my cheek and I must redouble my efforts to keep rage at bay.

  “Of course, you don’t remember, Albert. But in my hands, you explored new spiritual territory. We seemed destined to make history together, the two of us.

  “Only then we hit a barrier! The Observer Effect I told you about, remember? Your original kept remotely influencing the soul-field, anchoring you to this plane of reality, interfering whenever I tried to raise the paired-state resonance to a new level. Eventually, I realized what was needed in order to solve the problem.

  “I had to eliminate the organic Albert Morris!” ditYosil shakes his head ruefully.

  “Only I found that I couldn’t do it. Not while my own organic brain came burdened with so many hang-ups — conscience, empathy, ethical principles — along with gutless worries about getting caught. It was terribly frustrating. I hated myself for it! Here I was, with a possible solution and tools to do the job, ready at hand, but lacking the will!”

  “My … deepest sympathy for your problem.”

  “Thank you. Nor was that even the worst of it. Soon, my partner and friend, Aeneas Kaolin, started putting pressure on. Demanding results. Making threats. Stoking my natural bent toward feelings of paranoia and pessimism. And don’t let anyone tell you that recognizing and acknowledging such feelings makes them go away! Illogical or not, they eat away at you.

  “I started having dreams, Morris. Dreams about a possible way around my dilemma. Dreams about death and resurrection. They both frightened and thrilled me! I wondered — what was my subconscious trying to tell me?

  “Then, last Sunday, I realized abruptly what the dreams meant. It came to me while I was imprinting a new copy … this copy, Albert.” ditYosil slaps his chest again. “In a moment I saw the whole picture, in all its glory, and knew what must be done.”

  Through gritted teeth, I manage to growl a reply.

  “realYosil saw it, too. At the same time, I’ll bet.”

  The gray laughs.

  “Oh, that’s true, Albert. And it must’ve terrified him, because he kept his distance after that, avoiding this copy. Even while we worked together down here in the lab. Soon, he made an excuse to head up to the cabin. But I knew what was on his mind. How could I not know?

  “I could sense that my maker was preparing to run.”

  An overtone of amazement thrums the Standing Wave, vibrating painfully between me and Little Red. Even though I/we suspected something like this … to hear it verified openly is positively weird.

  Poor, doomed realYosil! It’s one thing to see death coming at the hands of your own creation. That’s part of the human epic tradition, after all. Oedipus and his father. Baron Frankenstein and his monster. William Henry Gates and Windows ’09.

  But to realize that your slayer will be your own self. A being who shares every memory, understands your every motive, and agrees with you about nearly all of it. Every subvibration of the Standing Wave — identical!

  And yet, something was unleashed in clay that could never fully emerge in flesh. Something ruthless, at a level I could not imagine.

  “You … are genuinely insane …” I pant. “You need … help.”

  In response, the gray ghost simply nods, almost amiably.

  “Uh-huh. That sounds about right. At least by society’s standards. Only results can possibly justify the extreme measures I’ve taken.

  “I’ll tell you what, Albert. If my experiment fails, I’ll turn myself in for compulsory therapy. Does that sound fair?”

  He laughs. “For now, though, let’s operate on the assumption that I know what I’m doing, eh?”

  Before I can answer, an especially strong pulse of the soul-stretching machinery throws me into a spasm, my back arching in pain.

  Through it all, part of me remains calm, observant. I can see ditYosil working now to prepare the next phase of his grand experiment. First by pushing aside the glass partition that divided the laboratory and replacing it with some kind of hanging platform, suspended by cables from the ceiling. Carefully he centers the platform, midway between me and my alter ego, Little Red. It sways back and forth like a pendulum, bisecting the room.

  After a few seconds, the quivering aftereffects of that last pulse begin to fade, enough for me to blurt the question foremost on my mind.

  “Wh … what … is it you’re trying to accomplish?”

  Only when he’s fully satisfied with the placement of the swaying platform does the renegade golem turn to face me again, now with a thoughtful expression, sounding almost sincere. Enthralled, even.

  “What am I trying to accomplish, Albert? Why, my purpose here is evident. To fulfill my life’s work.

  “I aim to invent the perfect copying machine.”

  42

  Diteriorata

  … as Greenie flees and finds …

  Dusk was falling over the city as I burst onto the tenement roof, closely chased by a mob of candy-striped Waxers, howling to blast me into pottery shards. Turning at the exit door, I spent one of my last scattergun shells, emptying it down the stairwell, taking out the nearest pursuer along with several wooden steps, three feet of bannister, and a huge gout of ancient plaster. The rest of them backed off, darn fast.

  Catching my breath, I saw it was a pretty good defensive position, for the moment. Still, they seemed to have plenty of reinforcements, and ways to outflank me, given time.

  Time was one of many things I lacked — along with allies and ammo. Not to mention my fast-draining supply of élan vital, which was due to run out in a few hours, at best.

  I’m getting way too old for this kind of thing, I pondered, feeling stale as a loaf of bread several days out of the oven. Those multicolored basdits were still down there. I could hear scuttle movements below. And whispers, urgently debating ways to get at me.

  Why me?

  All this was rather over the top for a typical gang raid. Nor could I imagine any reason to spend so much expense trying to annihilate the cheap utility-greenie of a dead private eye.

  Unless Kaolin is cheesed at me for missing our appointment.

  It did appear rather eerie, I recalled. The attackers struck just after Palloid — poor little guy — mentioned slapping Aeneas with a transparency subpoena, forcing the reclusive trillionaire to open his books and camera records, perhaps even requiring him to appear in person. Could that be driving the hermit to desperate measures?

  Maybe Kaolin didn’t send these goons after me, but to recover the pictures.

  In my pocket lay the spool of photos Queen Irene took, during her meetings with “Vic Collins” … the co-conspirator she thought was Beta, but who later revealed hints of platinum skin under all that clever makeup. Instinctively, I had grabbed the spool from Pal when shooting broke out. Save the evidence — a good reflex for a gumshoe. But maybe the Waxers wouldn’t be pursuing me right now, if I had left th
e pictures behind!

  Palloid should’ve been the one to snatch the film and run! They’d never have caught the lithe ferret-ditto. Only retreat wasn’t part of my friend’s basic nature. And now Pal would never get those memories.

  Too bad. We may have been a couple of disposables, but we sure had some times, Palloid and me.

  I kicked the door in frustration. There’s gotta be a way off this roof!

  Still listening for another attack, I stepped away from the edge a bit, turning to look around at twilight in dittotown … perhaps my last view of the world. Off to the west and north, realfolk would be sitting on balconies and verandas right about now, sipping cool drinks and watching the sun set while awaiting their other halves — the selves they sent forth to work this morning, with a promise of downloaded continuity as reward for a hard day’s labor.

  That’s fine. It’s fair. Only where was a home that I could go to?

  Grumbles down the stairwell turned into loud argument. Good. Maybe their command structure had been messed up by the carnage Pal and I dished out, back in the apartment. Or it could just be a ruse, while they prepared a flanking maneuver.

  Taking a chance, I hurried over to one parapet and glanced down at the rusting fire escape. No one there. At least not yet.

  The opposite end of the roof supported a rickety shed made largely of wire mesh. Small gray shapes bobbed and cooed within. A pigeon coop. Two humanoid figures could be made out beyond — an adult and child, working together at repairing part of the enclosure. Both wore threadbare clothes, suitable for the slum environment, but their skin color was a drably realistic dun shade … almost brown. Probably an illusion in the rapidly dimming light. Still, I beat a hasty retreat just in case. If they were real, I had no business drawing danger toward them.

  Returning to the stairwell, I arrived in time to catch two of the red and pink — striped gladiators trying to sneak past the shattered steps by slithering up ropes attached to the ceiling by shock grapnels. They opened fire when I appeared, but the swaying cables spoiled their aim. So I blasted them to fragments that fell, tumbling, six stories to the atrium below.

  Only one shell left, I thought, checking the scattergun. It also occurred to me that this artfully contrived slum wasn’t quite as accurate as the designers hoped. Even in the worst of the old days, there were cops who would show up, eventually, if gunfire went on for very long. But here and now, nobody would come.

  Well, you had your chance, Gumby. You could have called Inspector Blane. Had him send a bunch of LSA enforcers to pick you up. But you’re too much like Pal. He can’t turn down a fight, while you gotta try and outsmart the forces of darkness. All by yourself, if possible.

  Even when you haven’t got a clue.

  It was true! More than I had realized. My mood at that particular moment gave it away. Despite everything, I felt strangely … happy.

  Oh, there’s no high quite like getting the focused attention of powerful enemies. Nothing is better guaranteed to make you feel important in the world, which may be why conspiracy theories are so popular among frustrated underachievers. In this case, it wasn’t an illusion. The mighty Aeneas Kaolin was apparently willing to spend loads just to get my little green porcelain ass.

  Well, bring ’em on! Hey, nothing beats the drama of a last stand.

  Maybe … , I thought, though it galled me to admit it. Maybe I am Albert Morris, after all.

  In fact, just one thing was spoiling the smug intensity of the moment. Not the fact that everything might end soon, in a blaze of battle. I could accept that.

  No, it was another of those strange, brief headaches that had begun coming over me during the last few hours … starting almost too mild to notice, but recurring lately with greater intensity. They would blow in like a hot wind and last only a minute or so, filling me with unexplained feelings of claustrophobia and helplessness, then vanish, leaving no residue. Perhaps it was a side effect of dittolife extension. I had no idea what to expect when the rejuvenation finally wore out. Only that the extra day had been rather more interesting than dissolving into slurry.

  Thanks, Aeneas.

  A faint clatter drew my attention away to the east, where I hurried to look over the parapet. There, on the fire escape, I now saw a dozen Waxers trying to climb quietly. Only the rusted metal framework kept creaking and popping, spoiling their stealth. It looked so rickety, with any luck the whole thing might give way, sending them crashing to the alley below.

  Should I try to help luck along? I wondered. A blast from the scattergun, aimed just right, could remove several bolts from the brickwork, causing a chain reaction, maybe unzipping the whole rickety thing.

  Or maybe not. I decided to hold back my last shell, for at least a minute or two.

  A quick dash to the south end showed another bunch of ditbulls clambering upward. These were equipped with finger and toe spikes, doing it the hard way, ascending laboriously hand-over-hand by jabbing the sharp tines into crumbly mortarwork. More than ever, I felt flattered by their attention. And eager to return the favor.

  A low wall surrounded the roof, looking rather decrepit and ready to go. So I pushed … and had the rapid contentment of feeling the whole mass give way. More than a meter of brickwork collapsed over the side, followed by a satisfying scream below. I ran along, kicking and shoving, sending more sections of wall toppling onto climbers, then turned and hurried back to the stairwell.

  Half a dozen figures dived for cover as I brandished the scattergun. That won me about a minute’s reprieve, I figured. Spinning around, I rushed to check the east-side fire escape again.

  That group was much closer now. So close, I no longer had any choice. While bullets pelted the rim of the wall, I cocked the hammer and chose a target, firing my final shot where it’d do the most good.

  Two warrior-golems screamed and rusty latticework groaned as a bolt popped free … then another.

  But the fire escape didn’t collapse. Those ancients built well, dammit.

  No time left. What should I do now? Try to hide Irene’s film? They’d search every square centimeter, as soon as I was squashed …

  I suddenly thought of the pigeon coop. Maybe I could tie the spool to the leg of a bird, send it flapping away, only to return after the goons departed -

  Bullets abruptly splattered the roof nearby. I spied a head and arms poking over the west parapet. Dodging behind the stairhouse, I evaded that threat only to see more hands fumble over the rim on the east side.

  Just one thing to do, then. Run for the edge while I still can! Some passerby may see me splat. With any luck, they’ll grab the film spool, and perhaps my head, hoping for a finder’s fee. My pellet code would lead to Albert … or Clara …

  It was a damn thin hope, but all I could muster as voices converged inside the stairhouse less than a meter away. Bullets smacked from nearly all directions now, encroaching on my narrow umbra of shelter, splattering me with sharp slivers.

  I gathered my legs, preparing to spring for the precipice -

  — then stopped as a new sound arose, burgeoning from nothing to noisy in seconds.

  A groaning whine of engines.

  The battle-dit who had been shooting at me turned around, stared, then lost his grip with a cry.

  A new shape rose to take his place. Compact, sleek, and powerful — a blue and white coupe with downthrusting engines at three corners and a logo in jaunty letters that spelled HARLEY along the nose.

  The trim skycycle turned as its cowling opened, revealing a figure who waved insouciantly, his beige spiral motif resembling that of a spinning propeller.

  Beta, I thought. So that’s where you vanished during the fighting!

  Grinning, my erstwhile nemesis offered a small space behind the pilot seat. “Well, Morris? Coming?”

  Believe it or not, I hesitated for a split instant, wondering if the pavement might be a better bet.

  Then, dodging bullets all the way, I ran hard to dive for the sanctuary offered by m
y longtime foe.

  43

  Kidnapped by Ditsies

  … as realAlbert gets carried away …

  Picture the inimitable Fay Wray, wriggling vainly in the adamant grasp of King Kong. That’s how I must’ve looked as the giant golem hauled me from the underground storage area under its one remaining arm. I gave up prying uselessly at the behemoth and tried instead to gain calm … to slow my pounding heart and chill the hormones surging through my veins. It wasn’t easy.

  A caveman, in danger, never wondered, Am I real enough to matter? But I often do. If the answer is, Not really, I can greet death with an aplomb that only heroes used to know. But if the answer is yes, fear multiplies! Right at that moment I could taste bile surging from my gut. Having seen my house and garden burn, I had no wish to make Clara grieve for me twice.

  “Where … are you taking me?” I asked, catching my breath. The monster barely acknowledged with a low grunt. A conversationalist. He also stank, from some kind of spoilage either before or during imprinting.

  Moving away from the wall, with its row of locked storage cabinets, he carried me through the enormous storage room past shelves piled endlessly with tools and equipment … all the kinds of stuff you might need if, say, a few dozen important VIPs wanted to take shelter underground from some nuclear-bio-cyber-ceramo calamity up at the surface, forever. We were nearly at the door leading out of the storeroom when a drumming sound arrived from the hall outside. My captor paused in his tracks.

  He listened. I listened. It sounded like marching footsteps.

  Something more than dumb grunts stirred in the monster’s head. Making a decision, he stepped to one side, shifting into shadows before a procession of clay soldiers trooped into view.

  They entered in a column, one after another, wearing army camouflage colors and still glowing from the autokiln. Golems — big ones — dressed and equipped for battle.

  Did someone activate one of the reserve units? To look for me perhaps? I felt tempted to shout and wave, in case they included a Clara.