Kiln People

by David Brin

  Then what holds them back? Lack of faith? Divine judgment?

  No. Those old excuses won’t suffice. They never did. For where’s the logic in basing salvation on a creator’s capricious whim or craving for praise? Or on prayer-incantations that vary from culture to culture? That’s not consistent or scientific. It’s not how the rest of nature works.

  Think, Albert. Look back at all the tragedies that marred human life, ever since our dim beginnings. Sickness stole your loved ones. Starvation scythed your tribe. Blighted by ignorance and coarse of speech, you couldn’t even share what little you managed to learn. Or take the frustrating clumsiness of your hands and slowness of feet. Or the curse of having to be just one place at a time, when innumerable things needed doing! None of these problems were solved by the prescriptions of shamans and priests. Not by patronizing mystics or condescending monks.

  Technology. That’s what made things better! In fits and starts — and often horribly abused along the way — that’s where we found answers that were consistent, dependable, uncapricious. Answers that applied to lord and vassal alike. Answers that improved life across the board and never went away.

  So, why not use technology to solve the greatest age-old riddle — immortality for the soul?

  I admit, I’m starting to understand what drove Yosil Maharal. Heaven help me, I can grasp his dream.

  With each passing moment, I learn more. Explicit facts and abstract theorizations pour in, sponged out of ditYosil as he works unsuspecting nearby, striving to finish before attackers break in. His knowledge — the work of a lifetime — comes to me unearned and disjointed. I can encompass the glazier’s beauty, for example, at an aesthetic level, before the underlying equations make any sense. The uneven pace of understanding is one reason why I’ve held back from meddling. So far.

  Examining all those fragile glimmers out there, I believe I know what holds them apart — a raw dread of losing individuality! Of being smeared out. Of getting lost. People approach and then avoid each other in a mad dance, fearful of both too much isolation and too much intimacy.

  I remember that dance, too well. But the fear is gone now, burned out by my ordeal in Maharal’s tormenting machinery. In becoming many, I no longer dread the prospect of sharing a Standing Wave.

  Am I like some bodhisattva, then, returning from Nirvana with compassionate aid for the unenlightened? Is it compassion I feel, so eager to intervene?

  I yearn to reach out, to embrace all those dismayed flickers, to waken and encourage and liberate them. To stoke their wan fires and force them to acknowledge the starkness all around.

  It’s not the humble version of compassion we’ve been taught to admire. Unlike a buddha, I brim with ambition for myself and all of my benighted species!

  Some honest corner of me calls this “arrogant.”

  So? Doesn’t that very honesty help qualify me for the job?

  For sure, I’ll make a better god than ditYosil.

  Algae on a barren shore. Increasingly, I find that metaphor apt. For we seem very much like the first creatures that climbed awkwardly from the sea to colonize bare land, underneath a blazing sun.

  The nearly empty soulscape beckons, like a new frontier. One filled with far more potential than sterile outer space with its mere planets and galaxies. Science and religion only hinted at the immense potential here! If we can make it happen.

  I can make it happen! I suspect this with growing excitement. There are just a few things to figure out first …

  Wait. I see it now! A truth that Professor Maharal realized weeks ago. His ghost actually tried to explain it to me, with analogies from quantum mechanics. I never understood then, but now it seems so clear -

  The body is an anchor.

  That paragon of organic evolution, the breakthrough marvel of human flesh and brain that made self-awareness, abstraction, and the Standing Wave all possible — the body comes well equipped for those wonders, but also saddled with animal instincts and needs, like individuality, craving the insulation of I and thou the way a fish needs the surrounding stroke of water.

  To finish climbing ashore, leaving the sea for good, we must abandon the carapace of flesh!

  This realization must have terrified Professor Maharal, triggering a split between his rig and rox, between man and golem, copy and archetype, ditto and master. realYosil saw self-murder looming as a natural consequence of his own research. He may even have agreed, in abstract. But the body would defend itself, flooding his real brain with panic hormones, sending him plunging across the desert in blind and futile flight.

  Of course then realAlbert had to follow him in death. Both the rider and the mirrors must be un-anchored. Another small price of deification. I see it now.

  Only suddenly I fathom something else.

  It won’t be enough to sever just two body links.

  More souls have to be cut loose, soon, in order to feed the glazier’s hungry process.

  More murder … on a grand scale.

  Images pour into me … things ditYosil had pushed to a corner of his mind. I glimpse a symbol — a trefoil of blood red scythes — accompanied by words: airborne contagion. Then another quick impression of missiles … trim, efficient rockets, stolen and assembled, ready to fire on an urban trajectory. At a moment that’s approaching soon.

  I need to know more!

  Whatever ditYosil has planned may be justifiable. Evolution doesn’t happen without pain or loss. A lot of fish died, in order for a few to stand. The price may be worthwhile …

  … but only if the benefits can actually be achieved!

  Yosil has already been much too careless. The experiment veered off its planned course, or else why would I feel this growing tide of power and ambition as the number of my perfect duplicates keeps multiplying, gathering energy like magma under a volcano? I am the one getting ready to ride the Big Wave … something ditYosil never anticipated.

  If he made one mistake, he might have made others. I’d better check, and quick.

  He really shouldn’t be allowed to slaughter so many innocents.

  At least, not till I’m sure there’s a high probability of success.

  54

  Like a Brick

  … as Gumby becomes partly useful …

  Crawling slowly after a trail of footprints in the dust, propelled through blazing agony by little more than stubbornness, dragging the dead weight of this dying body with just one good arm and a half-functioning leg … I couldn’t help wondering what I ditto deserve this.

  My aim was to chase Beta, to catch the basdit before this body of mine dissolved, to thwart his evil scheme — whatever it might be. And if that proved to much to ask? Well, then, maybe I could inconvenience him a little. By biting him around the ankles, if nothing else.

  All right, it wasn’t much of a plan. But my other motivation, curiosity, which had kept me going for two grinding days, didn’t serve anymore. I no longer cared about the secret struggle among three geniuses — Beta, Kaolin, and Maharal — only that they all must think they were rid of this cheap green copy by now, and damn if I wasn’t going to show them otherwise!

  Anyway, that’s how it felt as I crawled past the main part of the old vacation house and into the mountain, following Beta’s footprints across the uneven floor of a cave … a natural limestone grotto that must have attracted Maharal to build here in the first place, erecting his cabin over the entrance, then using the cavern to establish a clandestine scientific redoubt.

  Glowbulbs cast long shadows across stalactites and other drip features that shimmered along their dewey flanks. Water beads glistened as they fell. If my ears were functioning, I’d surely have heard a rhythmically pleasant plinking as the drops struck cloudy pools. One sound did penetrate, a low vibration I felt through my belly while creeping across the stone floor, growing more intense as I pursued Beta’s trail downward at a shallow angle … easier for me than climbing, I suppose.

  Soon I passed by a wall that had been
chipped and smoothed by human hands. My good eye glimpsed figures, etched in the rocky face by strike-flaking, one chiseled nick at a time. Petroglyphs, incised by some long-ago native people who deemed this cave a sacred place of power, where nature’s forces might be implored and miracles invoked. Humanoid shapes with sticklike arms and legs brandished spears toward rough-drawn beasts — simpler dreams, but no less ambitious or sincere than anything we hope for today.

  Let me thrive and prevail, the magic on the wall beseeched.

  I agreed, amen.

  For about a hundred meters there weren’t any more distractions. Dragging myself along with one arm and a bad leg became so normal, I found it hard to recall any other mode of existence. Then, blinking in confusion, I found myself confronting a decision: a fork in the trail.

  Left — a small niche room contained humming machinery. Familiar mechanisms, a freezer, imprinter, and kiln combination. Automated and ready-to-use.

  Ahead — a well-lit ramp lunged downward, to the belly of the mountain. The vibrations came from there. It was also the direction taken by Beta’s footprints. The focus of big events. Probably the doctor’s secret lab, in all its glory.

  I didn’t bother examining the third path, leading to the right. And upward, yuck. I had enough trouble deciding between just two options. Should I keep following Beta, or try something really daring?

  The autokiln beckoned, its ready lights all gleaming the same color that I first wore when Albert made me long ago. It sure was a lot closer than trying to catch Beta by slithering after him. How alluring to contemplate swapping a ruined, expiring body for a fresh one!

  Alas, there was no guarantee I could manage to pull myself onto the imprinting platform with just one arm and a bum leg, let alone fumble the controls correctly, setting golem-creation in motion.

  Disadvantage number two: everybody knows that it’s non-warranty for a copy to try making copies. True, Albert was — or is — an excellent copier. But trying ditto-to-ditto using me as a template? At best a cheap frankie, now a complete ruin, how could I make anything but a mindless, shambling thing? Anyway, the exertion of reaching the perceptron platform would likely finish this body.

  On the other hand, straight ahead lay a smooth downhill path to the center of all secrets …

  That isn’t the way.

  I winced. It was the damned external voice again. The bedeviling scold.

  You may want to go right.

  Upward.

  It could be important.

  Obstinate anger nearly overwhelmed me. I didn’t need a termagant hounding the last moments of my pitiful existence!

  Oh, but perhaps you do.

  And to my surprise, I realized something about the statement rang true.

  I could not — and still cannot — explain what made me decide to accept that advice against all evidence and reason, abandoning two known options to invest all that I had left in a final daunting climb.

  Perhaps it amounted to — why not?

  Turning away from the tempting autokiln … and Beta’s hated footprints … I started to drag myself up the crude stairs.

  55

  A Family Spat

  … as realAlbert comes to appreciate his simple upbringing …

  Ritu and I were trapped in that awful tunnel under Urraca Mesa, with one band of enemies battling toward us from behind while others blocked further progress ahead. We could only crouch in the narrow passageway while gunfire echoes pinged around us from both directions.

  Beta seemed to be running out of fighters. Only one damaged drone was assigned to watch over us. Still, he seemed quite capable of guarding two scared organics.

  “I should have made more of myself when I had the chance,” groused the giant golem.

  Ritu winced. She was already worn out from imprinting so many dittos with the alternate personality carried around inside her head, obliged to do so by a compulsion stronger than addiction. The thought of copying more would only deepen her self-loathing. I worried in the dim half-light that Ritu might suddenly leap up and try to end her misery by dashing toward the combat zone, throwing her body into the melee before warriors of both sides could cease fire.

  Lacking any other way to be helpful — and badly needing distraction from my own worries — I tried asking questions.

  “When did you realize about Beta?”

  She seemed at first not to hear, chewing a lip, eyes darting nervously. I repeated the question. Finally, Ritu answered without looking back directly.

  “Even as a kid, I knew something was wrong with me. Some inner conflict made me do or say things I didn’t intend or that I’d later regret, sabotaging relationships and …” Ritu shook her head. “I guess a lot of adolescents might describe the very same problem. But it got far worse when I started imprinting. Dittos wandered off, or returned only to inload fragmented memories. Can you imagine how frustrating and unfair it felt? I was born into this business. I know dittoing better than most of the UK development guys! I kept telling myself it must be a glitch in the machinery. It would clear up with next year’s model.”

  She turned to look at me.

  “That must have been denial, I suppose.”

  No kidding. It was like calling the ocean wet.

  “Did you ever seek help?”

  She turned haunted eyes downward. “Do you think I need help?”

  It took hard effort to squelch a reflexive, horrified laugh. The force of repression within her must be incredible to even ask such a question while we cowered in this awful place.

  “When did I start to understand?” Ritu continued after a few seconds. “Weeks ago, I overheard my father and Aeneas argue fiercely over whether to announce some new breakthroughs, like extending ditto lifespan. Aeneas called the methods unready and complained how much of Yosil’s research aimed at mystical areas like non-homologous imprinting …”

  I made an earnest effort to listen as Ritu’s story poured out at last. I was interested, really. But the tunnel felt so stifling and hot … I couldn’t help wondering, were my sweats a symptom of some vile plague, contracted during my brief visit to the germ warfare room? Were superfast pathogens already tearing through my flesh?

  I did not want to think about that! Like Ritu, I sought distraction from helplessness in dialogue.

  “Um … could those quarrels with Aeneas explain why your father went into hiding?”

  “I guess so … but they had always fought like brothers, ever since Aeneas bought the Bevvisov-Maharal process to animate his movie-effex dolls. The two of them usually calmed down and sorted things out.”

  “Not this time though,” I prompted. “Kaolin—”

  “—accused Yosil of stealing files and equipment! I could tell Aeneas was furious. Yet he kept his anger bottled, as if Father had some power over him. Something that kept even the chairman of Universal Kilns from interfering, no matter how mad he got.”

  “Blackmail?” I suggested. “Kaolin’s ditto was snooping around your father’s house when you and I met there Tuesday evening. Maybe he was looking for evidence to destroy, right after knocking off Yosil—”

  “No.” Ritu shook her head. “Before he departed for the last time, I overheard Father tell Aeneas, ‘I’m your only hope, so get out of my way if you haven’t the guts to help.’ That sounds rather scary, I admit, but not like blackmail. Anyway, I still can’t believe Aeneas would murder anyone.”

  “Well, some Kaolin dit-alike shot at us later that night, on the desert highway.”

  As if on cue, several loud bangs resonated where Beta’s rear guard still fought off unnamed enemies. Panic reignited in Ritu’s eyes … till she pushed the dread away one more time. In her own way, she was showing real courage.

  “I … thought about that. Aeneas wasn’t only worried about my father, you know. He also had a growing obsession about … Beta.” Ritu spat the word in distaste. “Aeneas spent a fortune on insurance and security, trying to plug Beta’s access to UK technologies and material.
I guess somehow along the way he must have finally discovered the truth about my other half.” She jerked her head toward the nearby guard-golem.

  “It would have galled Aeneas to realize that Beta knew everything that I know about the company. He couldn’t even prosecute or take revenge without hurting me … the same Ritu Maharal he always treated like a daughter. Nor could he talk to me about the problem. That would only warn Beta, so I was kept out of the loop.”

  “Even worse,” I added, “Kaolin would worry about the possibility that Beta and Yosil Maharal had forged an alliance.”

  Ritu’s head jerked. “The very idea would drive Aeneas crazy.”

  “Then his golem shot us on the highway because he thought you were Beta,” I concluded. “You were wearing that ditto-disguise. And all this time I thought he had it in for me! But then, who shot a missile at my house and—”

  A far-traveling bullet came zinging by, interrupting as it ricocheted off the ceiling. Ritu winced. For the fourth or fifth time, she tried crouching closer to me. Amid this fracas, the most natural thing would be for us to hold each other. But I edged back, keeping distant, since I might be carrying some foul virus.

  The alternative was to keep talking. I tilted my head to fix contact with her eyes.

  “What about your father?” I demanded. “What was he doing down here that frightened Kaolin? Why steal golems and arms from the government. And germ warfare agents, for God’s sake!

  “Ritu, what is still going on here, days after he died?”

  My intensity made her draw back. Ritu clamped both hands against her head. Her voice cracked.

  “I don’t know about any of that!”