Kiln People Part 2

"Only if they're smart enough to heed new input. This one is a cable-laying drone from the Sanitation Department. Zingleminded and dumb as a stone. It's trying to bring a wide-baud fiber through sewer pipes into the bas.e.m.e.nt, heading stubbornly for Beta's toilet. n.o.body's getting past the thing, I promise."

I grunted skeptically. Anyway, our biggest problem wasn't escape, escape, but getting to the hideout before our proof melted. but getting to the hideout before our proof melted.

Any further comment was cut off by a novel sight. The policewoman sent one of her blue copies strolling right in the middle of the battle! Ignoring whizzing bullets, it poked away at fallen combatants, making sure they were out of commission, then severed their heads to drop into a preserva sac for possible interrogation.

Not much chance of that. Beta was notoriously careful with his dits, using fake ID pellets and programming their brains to self-destruct if captured. It would take fantastic luck to uncover his real name today. Me? I'd be happy to pull off a complete rescue and put this particular enterprise of his out of business.

Noisy explosions rocked Alameda as smoke enveloped every entrance of the Teller Building, spreading down to the car where Blane and I took shelter. Something blew off my fedora, giving my neck a sharp yank. I crouched lower, breathing hard, before reaching into a pocket for my fiberscope -- a much safer way to look around. It snaked over the hood of the car at the end of a nearly invisible stalk, swiveling automatically to aim a tiny gel-lens at the fight, transmitting jerky images to the implant in my left eye.

(Note to self: this implant is five years old. Obsolete. Time to upgrade? Or are you still squeamish after last time?) The blue copdit was still out there, checking bodies and tallying damage -- even as our purple enforcers stepped up their a.s.sault, charging through every convenient opening with the reckless abandon of fanatic shock troops. As I watched, several stray slugs impacted the police-golem, spinning it around, blowing doughy chunks against a nearby wall. It staggered and doubled over, quivering. You could tell the pain links functioned. Purple mercenaries may operate without touch cells, ignoring wounds while blasting away with pistolas in both hands. But a blue's job is to augment the senses of a real cop. It feels.

Ouch, I thought. I thought. That's got to hurt. That's got to hurt.

Anyone watching the mutilated thing suffer would expect it to auto-dissolve. But the golem straightened instead, shivered, and went limping back to work. A century ago, that might have seemed pretty heroic. But we all know what personality types get recruited for the constabulary nowadays. The real cop would probably inload this ditto's memories ... and enjoy it.

My phone rang, a hi-pri rhythm, so Nell wanted me to take it. Three taps on my upper-right canine signaled yes yes.

A face ballooned to fill my left eye-view. A woman whose pale brown features and golden hair were recognizable across a continent.

"Mr. Morris, I'm sifting reports of a raid in dittotown ... and I see the LSA has registered an enforcement permit. Is this your work? Have you found my stolen property?"

Reports?

I glanced up to see several floatcams hovering over the battle zone, bearing the logos of eager sniff-nets. It sure didn't take the vultures long.

I choked back a caustic comment. You have to answer a client, even when she's interfering. "Um ... not yet, Maestra. We may have taken them by surprise but ... "

Blane grabbed my arm. I listened.

No more explosions. The remaining gunfire was m.u.f.fled, having shifted deep into the building.

I raised my head, still tense. The city cop stomped past us in heavy armor, accompanied by her naked blue duplicates.

"Mr. Morris? You were saying something?" The beautiful face frowned peevishly inside my left eye, where blinking offered no respite. The beautiful face frowned peevishly inside my left eye, where blinking offered no respite. "I expect to be kept informed -- " "I expect to be kept informed -- "

A squadron of cleaners came next, green and pink -- candy-striped models, wielding brooms and liquivacs to scour the area before rush hour brought this morning's commuters. Expendable or not, cleaner-dits wouldn't enter a place where fighting raged.

"Mr. Morris!"

"Sorry, Maestra," I replied. "Can't talk now. I'll call when I know more." Before she could object, I bit a molar, ending the call. My left eye cleared.

"Well?" I asked Blane.

His visor exploded with colors that I might have interpreted if I were in cyberdit form. As a mere organic, I waited.

"We're in."

"And the template?"

Blane grinned.

"Got it! They're bringing her up now."

My hopes lifted for the first time. Still, I scuttled low across the pavement to reclaim the fedora, planting its elastic armor back over my head. Anyway, Clara wouldn't appreciate it if I lost it.

We hurried past the cleaners and up twenty steps to the main entrance. Broken bodies and bits of pseudoflesh melted into a multicolored haze, lending the battleground an eerie sense of unreality. Soon, the dead would be gone, leaving just a few bullet-spalled walls and some rapidly healing windows. And splinters from a huge door the purples blew to bits when they forced their way inside.

Newsbots swooped down, gattling us with questions. Publicity can be helpful in my line of work, but only if there's good news to report. So I kept mum till a pair of Blane's LSA brutes emerged from the bas.e.m.e.nt, supporting a much smaller figure between them.

Slimy preserving fluid dripped from naked flesh that shone like glittering snow, completely white except where livid bruises marred her shaved head. And yet, though bald, abraded, and ditto-hued, the face and figure were unmistakable. I had just been speaking to the original. The Ice Princess. The maestra of Studio Neo -- Gineen Wammaker.

Blane told his purples to rush the template to a preserva tank, so it wouldn't expire before testifying. But the pale figure spotted me and planted her heels. The voice, though dry and tired, was still that famously sultry contralto.

"M-mister Morris ... I see you've been spendthrift with your expense account." She glanced at the windows, many of them shredded beyond self-repair, and the splintered front door. "Am I expected to pay for this mess?"

I learned several things from the ivory's remark. First, it must have been s.n.a.t.c.hed after after Gineen Wammaker hired me, or the ditto wouldn't know who I was. Gineen Wammaker hired me, or the ditto wouldn't know who I was.

Also, despite several days stored torturously in WD-90 solution, no amount of physical abuse could suppress the arrogant sensuality that Gineen imbued into every replica she made. Wigless, battered and dripping, this golem held herself like a G.o.ddess. And even deliverance from torment at Beta's hands hadn't taught her grat.i.tude.

Well, what do you expect? I thought. I thought. Wammaker's customers are sickies. No wonder so many of them buy Beta's cheap bootleg copies. Wammaker's customers are sickies. No wonder so many of them buy Beta's cheap bootleg copies.

Blane responded to the Wammaker replica as if she were real. Her presence was that overpowering.

"Naturally, the Labor Subcontractors a.s.sociation will expect some reimburs.e.m.e.nt. We put up considerable resources to underwrite this rescue -- "

"Not a rescue," the ivory model corrected. "I have no continuity. Surely you don't think my original is going to inload me after this experience? You've recovered her stolen property, that is all."

"Beta was ditnapping your dittos off the street, using them as templates to make pirate facsimiles -- "

"Violating my copyright. And you've put a stop to it. Fine. That's what I pay my LSA dues for. Catching license violators. As for you, Mr. Morris -- you'll be well compensated. Just don't pretend it's anything heroic."

A tremor shook the slim body. Her skin showed a skein of hairline cracks, deepening by the second. She looked up at the purples. "Well? Are you going to dip me now? Or shall we wait around till I melt?"

I had to marvel. The ditto knew it wasn't going to be inloaded back into Gineen's lovely head. Its life -- such as it was -- would end painfully while her pseudobrain was sifted for evidence. Yet she carried on with typical dignity. Typical arrogance.

Blane sent the purps on their way, hurrying their small burden past the striped cleaners, the blue-skinned cops, and remnant evaporating shreds of bodies that had been locked in furious combat only minutes before. The way his eyes tracked Wammaker's ivory, I wondered -- was Blane one of her fans? Maybe a closet renter?

But no. He snarled in disgust.

"It's not worth it. All this expense and risk, because a prima donna won't bother to safeguard her dits. We wouldn't have to do any of this if they carried simple autodestructs."

I didn't argue. Blane is one of those people who can be completely matter-of-fact about kiln tech. He treats his own dittos like useful tools, no more. But I I understood why Gineen Wammaker won't implant her copies with remote-controlled bombs. understood why Gineen Wammaker won't implant her copies with remote-controlled bombs.

When I'm a ditto, I like to pretend I'm immortal. It helps me get through a drab day.

The police barriers came down just in time for rush hour as great lumbering din.o.buses and spindly flywheel trollies began spilling their cargoes -- gray office-golems, cheaper green and orange factory workers, swarms of candy-striped expendables, plus a sprinkling of other types. Those entering Teller Plaza gawked at the damaged walls. Grays called up their news services for summary replays of the fight. Several of them pointed at Blane and me, storing up some unusual memories to bring home to their archies, at day's end.

The armored policewoman approached Blane with a preliminary estimate of costs and fines. Wammaker was right about dues and responsibilities. LSA would have to foot most of the bill ... at least till the day we finally catch Beta and force a reckoning. When that happens, Blane can only hope that deep pockets lay somewhere along Beta's obligation trail. Deep enough for LSA to come out ahead on punitive damages.

Blane invited me to join him in the bas.e.m.e.nt, inspecting the pirate copying facility. But I'd seen the place. Just a few hours ago "I" was down there getting my ceramic hide pounded by some of Beta's terracotta soldiers. Anyway, the LSA had a dozen or so ebony crime-scene a.n.a.lysts under contract who were much better equipped to handle the fine-toothed-comb stuff, using specialized senses to sift every nook and particle for clues, hoping to discover Beta's real name and whereabouts.

As if it ever does any good, I thought, stepping outside for some fresh air. I thought, stepping outside for some fresh air. Beta is a wily son of a ditch. I've been hunting him for years and he always slips away. Beta is a wily son of a ditch. I've been hunting him for years and he always slips away.

The police weren't much help, of course. Ditnapping and copyright violation have been civil torts ever since the Big Deregulation. It would stay a purely commercial matter, so long as Beta carefully avoided harming any real people. Which made his behavior last night puzzling. To chase my greenie into Odeon Square, firing stones from slingshots and barely missing several strolling archies -- it showed something like desperation.

Outside, I waded through a hubbub of folks coming and going. All were dittos, so an archie like me had right-of-way. Anyway, with golembodies still smoldering unpleasant fumes nearby, I moved away quickly, frowning in thought.

Beta seemed upset last night. He's captured me before, without ever interrogating so fiercely!

In fact, he usually just kills me, with no malice or hard feelings. At least to the best of my knowledge. Those times that I recovered memories.

The same distress that drove Beta's yellows to torture my green last night also made them careless. Shortly after pummeling me, they all departed, leaving me tied up in that bas.e.m.e.nt factory between two autokilns that were busily cranking out cheap Wammaker copies, imprinting their kinky-specialist personalities from that little ivory they had ditnapped. Carelessly, the yellows never even bothered to check what tools I might have tucked away under pseudoflesh! Escaping turned out to be much easier than breaking in -- (too easy?) -- though Beta soon recovered and gave chase.

Now I was back and victorious, right? Shutting down this operation must be a real blow to Beta's piracy enterprise. So why did I feel a sense of incompletion?

Strolling away from the traffic noise -- a braying cacophony of jitney horns and bellowing dinos -- I found myself confronting an alley marked by ribbons of flickertape, specially tuned to irritate any natural human eye.

"Stay Out!" the fluttering tape yammered. the fluttering tape yammered. "Structural Danger! Stay Out!" "Structural Danger! Stay Out!"

Such warnings -- visible only to realfolk -- are growing commonplace as buildings in this part of town suffer neglect. Why bother with maintenance when the sole inhabitants are expendable clay people, cheaply replenished each day? Oh, it's a remarkable slum, all right. Cleanliness combined with decay. Just another of the deregulated ironies that give dittoburgs their charm.

Averting my gaze, I strolled past the glittery warning. No one tells me where I can't go! Anyway, the fedora should protect against falling debris.

Giant recycling bins lined the alley, fed by slanting accordion tubes, accepting pseudoflesh waste from buildings on both sides. Not all dittos go home for memory inloading at the end of a twenty-hour work day. Those made for boring, repet.i.tive labor just toil on, fine-tuned for contentment, till they feel that special call -- beckoning them to final rest in one of these slurry bins.

What I felt beckoning, right then, was my bed. After a long day and a half -- that felt much longer -- it would be good to make today's copies and then drop into sweet slumber.

Let's see, I pondered. I pondered. What bodies shall I wear? Beyond this Beta affair, there are half a dozen smaller cases pending. Most call for just some fancy web research. I'll handle those from home, as an ebony. A bit expensive, but efficient. What bodies shall I wear? Beyond this Beta affair, there are half a dozen smaller cases pending. Most call for just some fancy web research. I'll handle those from home, as an ebony. A bit expensive, but efficient.

There has to be a green, of course. I've been putting off ch.o.r.es. Groceries, laundry. A toilet keeps backing up. The lawn needs to be mowed.

The rest of the gardening -- some pruning and replanting -- fell under the category of pleasure/hobby time. I'd save that to do in person, maybe tomorrow.

So, will two dittos suffice? I shouldn't need any grays, unless something comes up.

Beyond the recycling bins lay another gap between buildings -- a back alley veering south, with ramps leading to an old parking garage. Overhead, the narrow lane was spanned by hand-strung utility wires and clotheslines where cheap garments flapped in the morning breeze. Shouting voices and raucous music floated down rickety fire escapes.

Nowadays, everybody needs a hobby. For some people, it's a second life -- sending a ditto a day down here to golemtown, joining others in pretend families, engaging in mock businesses, dramas, even feuds with the neighbors. "Clay operas," "Clay operas," I think they're called. Whole derelict blocks have been taken over to feign Renaissance Italy or London during the Blitz. Standing in that alley, under the flapping clotheslines and raucous-scratchy music, I had only to squint and imagine myself in a tenement ghetto of more than a century ago. I think they're called. Whole derelict blocks have been taken over to feign Renaissance Italy or London during the Blitz. Standing in that alley, under the flapping clotheslines and raucous-scratchy music, I had only to squint and imagine myself in a tenement ghetto of more than a century ago.

The romantic attraction of this particular scenario escaped me. Realfolk don't live like this anymore. On the other hand, what's it to me how people spend their spare time? Being a golem is always a matter of choice.

Well, almost always.

That's why I kept working on the Beta Case, despite endless irritations and pummelings -- and the me's that vanish, never to be seen again. Beta's style of industrial thievery had much in common with oldtime slavery. A disturbing psychopathology underlay his profitmaking criminal enterprise. The guy needed help.

All right, so dittotown has all sorts of eccentric corners and eddies -- from d.i.c.kensian factories to fairyland amus.e.m.e.nt centers to open war zones. Were any of this alley's curious features relevant to my case? The area had been scanned by some LSA floater-eyes before this morning's raid. But human vision can notice things cameras don't. Like bullet scars on some of the bricks. Recent ones. Spalled mortar felt fresh between my fingertips.

So? Nothing strange about that in dittotown. I don't like coincidences, but my top priority at the moment was to settle with Blane and go home.

Turning back, I reentered the lane between those big recycling tanks, only to halt when a hissing sound dropped from somewhere overhead.

It sounded vaguely like my name.

I stepped aside quickly, reaching under my vest while peering upward.

A second faint hiss focused my attention on one of the accordion shafts slanting from upper floors of the Teller Building to a slurry bin. Squinting, I saw a silhouetted figure writhe inside the flexi-translucent tube, pawing at a small tear in its fabric. The humanoid shape had wedged itself, splaying both legs to prevent falling a final two meters into the tank.

The effort was futile, of course. Acrid vapors would devour whatever scanty pseudolifespan the poor fellow had left. Anyway, the next ditto to jump in that tube would land with enough force to dislodge this fellow's decaying limbs, carrying them both into the soup!

Still, it happens now and then -- especially to teens who haven't grown accustomed to life's new secondary cycle of nonchalant death and trivial rebirth. They sometimes panic at the recycling stage. It's natural. When you imprint memories and copy your soul soul into a clay doll, you take along a lot more than a To Do list of the day's errands. You also bring survival talents inherited from the long era when folks knew just one kind of death. The kind to be feared. into a clay doll, you take along a lot more than a To Do list of the day's errands. You also bring survival talents inherited from the long era when folks knew just one kind of death. The kind to be feared.

It all comes down to personality. They tell you in school -- don't make disposable dittos unless you can let go.

I raised my gun.

"Say, fella, would you like me to put you out of your -- "

That's when I heard it again. A single whispered word.

"Mo-o-r-r-r-isssss!"

Blinking several times, I felt that old frisson down the spine. A feeling you can only experience fully in your real body and your original soul -- with the same nervous system that reacted to shadows in the dark when you were six.

"Um ... do I know you?" I asked.

"Not as well ... as I know you ... "

I put my weapon away and took a running leap, grabbing the upper edge of the recycling tank, then hauled myself on top. No sweat. One of your chief tasks each day, when you find that you're the real one, is to keep the old body in shape.

Standing on the lid brought me a lot closer to the fumes -- an aroma that you find somewhat attractive when you're a golem in its last hour. In organic form, I found it rank. But now I could see the visage peering through torn plastic, already slumping from peptide exhaustion and diurnal decay, the cheeks and molded brow ridges sagging, its former bright banana color fading to a sickly jaundice. Still, I recognized one of Beta's favorite, bland disguises.

"It seems you're stuck," I commented, peering closer. Was it one of the yellows that tormented me last night, when I was a captive green? Did this one shoot pellets at me, across Odeon Square? He must have escaped this morning's raid by fleeing upstairs ahead of Blane's purple enforcers, then jumping into the accordion tube through some mislaid hope of getting away.

Still vivid in memory was one yellow Beta, leering as he expertly stimulated the pain receptors that even my greens find realistic. (There are drawbacks to being a first-rate copier.) I recall wondering at the time, why? why? What did he hope to accomplish with torture? Half of the questions he asked didn't even make sense! What did he hope to accomplish with torture? Half of the questions he asked didn't even make sense!

Anyway, a deep a.s.surance helped me ignore the pain. It doesn't matter, It doesn't matter, I told myself over and over, during last night's captivity. And it didn't. Not very much. I told myself over and over, during last night's captivity. And it didn't. Not very much.

So why should I feel pity for this golem's suffering?

"Been here a long time," it told me. it told me. "Came to learn why there's been no contact from this operation ... " "Came to learn why there's been no contact from this operation ... "

"A long time?" I checked my watch. Less than an hour had pa.s.sed since Blane's purples attacked.

" ... and found it was taken over, like the others! They chased me ... I climbed in this tube ... sealed the top ... I figured -- "

"Hold it! 'Taken over,' you say? You mean just now, right? Our raid -- "

The face was slumping rapidly. Sounds escaping from its mouth grew steadily harder to understand. Less like words than gurgling rattles.