Kiln People Part 22

I glance down, groping, and find it. A flexible hose with a mask to fit over the nose and mouth. As soon as I strap it on, suction begins, flushing my throat with water, then air, provoking spasmodic coughing fits. Still, it's a relief to start breathing again. How long has it been?

It also means the enzyme clock resumes ticking.

"So" -- coughing again -- "so your other gray took a spare out of the fridge and told you who I am before it expired. Big deal."

The Maharal-duplicate grins.

"I did not need to be told. I am that same gray. The one who spoke to your archetype Tuesday morning. The one who stood by my own corpse at noon. The same 'ghost' who shot you Tuesday afternoon."

How can that be? Then I remember the strange-looking machine. Looking again at the blotches that flicker under a complexion that rather glows as if new ... I think I get it.

"Ditto-rejuvenation. Is that what it's all about?" After a brief pause, I add, "And Universal Kilns wants to suppress your discovery in order to keep up sales." ditMaharal's smile hardens.

"A good guess. If only that were all. There would be disruptions. Economic ramifications. But nothing that society couldn't handle."

Thinking hard, I try to grasp what he's implying.

Something more serious than economic disruption? "How ... how long can a ditto go on acquiring new memories before it gets hard to inload?"

My captor nods.

"The answer depends on the original imprinting personality. But you are on the right track. With enough time, a golem's soul-field starts to drift, transforming into something new."

"A new person," I murmur. "Plenty of folks may worry about that." ditMaharal is watching me, as if evaluating my reactions. But evaluating for what?

Pondering my present state, I'm struck only by a calm acceptance.

"You've put something in the sustainofluid. A sedative?"

"A relaxing agent. We have tasks ahead of us, you and I. It won't be helpful for you to get upset. You tend to get unpredictable when agitated."

Huh. Clara says the very same thing about me. I'll take it from her, but not from this clown. Sedative or no, I'll get "agitated" whenever I darn well please.

"You talk as if we've done this before."

"Oh yes. Not that you'd remember. The first time we met was long ago and not in this lab. All the other times ... I disposed of the memories."

How can I react to such news, except by staring? This implies I'm not the first Albert Morris that Maharal has ditnapped. He must have snared several other copies -- some of those who mysteriously vanished over the years -- and trashed them when he was done ...

... when he was done doing what? The usual perversions don't seem Maharal's style.

I hazard a guess. "Experiments. You've been grabbing my dits and experimenting on them. But why? Why me?"

Maharal's eyes are gla.s.sy. I can see my own gray face reflected in them.

"Many reasons. One is your profession. You regularly lose high-quality golems without worrying much about it. As long as your missiongoes well -- villains are caught and the client pays -- you write off a few unexplained losses here and there as part of the job. You don't even report them for insurance." report them for insurance."

"But -- "

"Of course there's more."

He says it in such a way, one that's both knowing and tired of repet.i.tion, as if he's given me the same explanation many times before. It's a notion I find chilling.

Silence stretches. Is he waiting? Testing me? Am I supposed to figure out something, just from evidence before my eyes?

The initial flush of kiln-baking has faded. He stands before me in standard gray tones, looking moderately fresh ... but not entirely. Some of those under-the-skin blotches haven't gone away. Whatever process he uses to restore elan vital elan vital must be uneven. Imperfect, like a film doyenne with her latest face-lift. Underneath are signs of irreversible wear and tear. must be uneven. Imperfect, like a film doyenne with her latest face-lift. Underneath are signs of irreversible wear and tear.

"There ... must be a limit. A limit to the number of times you can refresh the cells."

He nods.

"It has always been a mistake to seek salvation solely through continuity of the body. Even the ancients knew this, back when a human spirit had just one home.

"Even they knew -- perpetuity is carried not by the body but by thesoul."

Despite a vatic tone, I could tell he meant this in a technological as well as a spiritual sense. "Carried by the soul ... You mean from one body to another." I blinked. "From a ditto to some body other other than its original?" than its original?"

It sinks in. "Then you've made another breakthrough. Something even bigger than extending a golem's expiration deadline."

"Go on," he says. he says.

I'm reluctant to speak the words.

"You ... think you can go on indefinitely, without the real you."

A smile spreads across the steel gray face, showing pleasure at my guess, like a teacher gazing at a favorite pupil. Yet there is chilling harshness in his golem grin.

"Reality is a matter of opinion.

"I am the true Yosil Maharal."

22.

Mime's the Word ... in which Tuesday's green gets yet another hue ...

This is my first chance to recite a report since I barely escaped that mess at Universal Kilns.

Talking into an old-fashioned autoscribe feels like a poor use of precious time, especially when I'm on the run. How much more convenient it is for Albert's special-model ditective grays -- outfitted with fancy subvocal recorders and built-in compulsions to describe everything they see or think, in realtime present tense! But I'm just a utility green, even after getting several dye jobs. A cheap knockoff. If there's to be an account of my miserable part in all this, I must do it the hard way.

Which brings up the prize question. An account for whom? An account for whom?

Not for realAlbert, my maker, who is surely dead. Or the cops, who would as soon dissect me as look at me. As for my gray brothers. h.e.l.l, it creeps me out just thinking about them.

So why bother reciting at all? Who will care?

I may be a frankie, but I can't stop picturing Clara, away fighting her war in the desert, unaware that her real lover has been fried by a missile. She deserves the modern consolation -- to hear about it from his ghost. That means me, since I'm the only ditto left. Even though I don't really feel like Albert Morris at all.

So here it is, dear Clara. A ghost-written letter to help you get past the first stage of grief. Poor Albert had his faults, but at least he cared. And he had a job.

I was there when it happened -- the "attack" on Universal Kilns, I mean. Standing on the factory floor not thirty yards away, staring in wonder as gray number two ran by, all blotchy and discolored from something horrid that was roiling his guts, preparing to burst. He sped on past, barely glancing at me, or at Pal's little ferret-ditto on my shoulder, though we had just gone through Hades to sneak inside and rescue him!

Ignoring our shouts, he searched frantically, then found what he was looking for -- a place to die without hurting anybody.

Well, anybody except that poor forklift driver, who never understood why a stranger suddenly wanted to burrow up his gloaca. And that was just the fellow's first rude surprise. The giant ditworker let out a bellow, then began expanding expanding to several times his former size, like a distended balloon ... like some cartoon character blowing too hard on his own thumb. I thought the unlucky forklift was about to explode! Then we'd all be finished. Me for sure. Everyone in the factory. Universal Kilns. Maybe every ditto in the city? to several times his former size, like a distended balloon ... like some cartoon character blowing too hard on his own thumb. I thought the unlucky forklift was about to explode! Then we'd all be finished. Me for sure. Everyone in the factory. Universal Kilns. Maybe every ditto in the city?

(Imagine all the archies having to do everything for themselves! They'd know how, how, of course. But everyone is so used to being many -- living several lives in parallel. Being limited to just one at a time would drive folks nuts.) of course. But everyone is so used to being many -- living several lives in parallel. Being limited to just one at a time would drive folks nuts.) Lucky for us, the hapless forklift stopped expanding at the last moment. Like a surprised blowfish, he stared about with goggle eyes, as if thinking, This was never in my contract. This was never in my contract. Then the soul-glow extinguished. The clay body shuddered, hardened, and went still. Then the soul-glow extinguished. The clay body shuddered, hardened, and went still.

Man, what a way to go.

There followed a maelstrom of chaos and clamoring alarms. Production machinery shut down. Worker-golems dropped every routine task and the vast factory thronged with emergency teams, converging to contain the damage. I saw displays of reckless courage -- or it would have been courage if the crews weren't expendable duplicates. Even so, it took valor to approach the bloated carca.s.s. Faint sprays jetted from the leaking, distended body. Any ditto who brushed even a droplet fell in writhing agony.

But most of the poison was checked, held inside the ma.s.sive, quivering forklift. As it started to slump and dissolve from within, purple-striped cleaners arrived with long hoses, spraying the area with anti-prion foam.

Company officials followed. No real humans yet, but lots of busy scientific grays in white coats, then some bright blue policedits and a silver-gold Public Safety proctor. Finally, a platinum duplicate of the UK chief himself, Vic Aeneas Kaolin, strode upon the scene demanding answers.

"Come on," Pallie's little ferret-self said from my shoulder. "Let's scram. You're orange right now, but the big guy still may recognize your face."

Despite that, I was tempted to stay and find out what just happened. Maybe help clear Albert's name. Anyway, what awaited me out there in the world? Ten hours of futile head-scratching, listening to the whining recriminations of Gadarene and Lum till my clock ran out and it was my own turn to melt away?

The foam still flowed, bubbling, hissing, and spreading across the factory floor. Imprinted survival instincts feel feel like the real thing, and I joined other onlookers backing away from the stuff. "All right," I sighed at last. "Let's get out of here." like the real thing, and I joined other onlookers backing away from the stuff. "All right," I sighed at last. "Let's get out of here."

I turned -- only to face several burly security types, liveried in pale orange with blue bands. And triple-size ersatz muscles that they flexed menacingly.

"Please come with us," one of them said with an augmented voice of authority, taking my arm in an adamant lock grip. Which I immediately took to be a good sign. one of them said with an augmented voice of authority, taking my arm in an adamant lock grip. Which I immediately took to be a good sign.

The "please" part, that is.

We were put inside a sealed van -- one with plain metal sides that stayed opaque, no matter how hard we stared, which Palloid thought rather rude.

"They could at least give us a view before they start dicing up our brains," groused the ferret with Pal's face, ingratiating himself with the guards in his typical fashion. "Hey, up front! How about letting a fellow consult with his lawyer-program, eh? You want to be held personally liable when I slap a mega-lien on your whole company for ditnapping? Are you aware of the recent ruling in ditAddison vs. Hughes ditAddison vs. Hughes? It's no longer an excuse for a golem to say he was 'just following orders.' Remember the Henchman Law. If you switch sides right now, you can help me sue your boss and go swimming in cash!"

Good old Pal, a charmer in whatever form he takes. Not that it mattered. Whether we were "under arrest" in a strictly legal sense was immaterial. As mere property -- and possible partic.i.p.ants in industrial sabotage -- we weren't going to inspire any UK employees to turn whistle-blower over our abused rights.

At least the driver left my armrest entertainment-flasher turned on, so I asked for news. The s.p.a.ce in front of me ballooned with holonet bubbles, most of them dealing with a "failed fanatical terrorist attack" at UK. They weren't very informative. Anyway, a short while later another item grabbed top billing as a banner globe erupted, crowding other holos aside.

NORTHSIDE AREA HOUSE DEMOLISHED.

BY HOODOO MISSILE!.

At first I didn't recognize the site of the blazing inferno. But news correlators soon added the address targeted by a clandestine murder rocket.

"Cripes," Pallie muttered near my ear. "That's tough, Albert."

It was home. Or the place where this body of mine got imprinted with memories, before getting set loose into a long, regrettable day. d.a.m.n, they even burned the garden, d.a.m.n, they even burned the garden, I thought, watching flames consume the structure and everything inside. I thought, watching flames consume the structure and everything inside.

In one sense, it seemed a mercy. Leading rumor-nets had already begun naming Albert Morris as a chief suspect in the UK attack. He'd be in a real jam if he still lived. Poor guy. It was predictable, I guess, so long as he kept trying to act as a romantic, old-fashioned crusader against evil. Sooner or later he was going to irritate someone much bigger and stronger and get in real trouble. Whoever did all this was being devastatingly thorough.

Trouble didn't even begin to cover what I was in as the van pulled to a stop. The rear door started opening and Pal's raggedy little ferretdit prepared to spring. But the guards were vigilant and quick. One s.n.a.t.c.hed Palloid's neck in a viselike grip. The other took me by an elbow, gently but with enough power to show how futile resistance would be.

We stepped out next to the unlit side portico of a big stone mansion, turning down a dim set of stairs partly hidden behind some truly outstanding chrysanthemums. I might have resisted the guard long enough to try and sniff the flowers, if I had a working nose. Ah well.

At the bottom, an open door led into a sort of lounge where half a dozen figures relaxed at tables and chairs, smoking, talking, and quaffing beverages. At first glance I thought they were real, since all wore varied shades of human-brown under durable cloth garments in rather old-fashioned styles. But an expert glance showed their fleshtones to be dye jobs. Their faces really gave them away -- bearing familiar expressions of resigned ennui. These were dittos at the end of a long work day, waiting patiently to expire.

Two of them sat before expensive interface screens, talking to computer-generated AI avatars with faces similar to their own. One was a small, childlike golem, wearing scuffed denim. I couldn't catch any of his words. But the other one, fashioned after a buxom woman with reddish hair, wearing ill-fitting matronly garb, spoke loudly enough to overhear as the guard pulled me along.

" ... with the divorce coming up, there are going to be a lot of changes," she told the onscreen face. she told the onscreen face. "My part will get more complicated while stress-induced submotivations grow increasingly subtle. If we can't have better day-to-day continuity, I wish we could at least be given better data on the original misery indices. Especially since I have to start each day almost from scratch. Fortunately, the situation was so chaotic that consistency isn't much required, or even expected by the subject ... " "My part will get more complicated while stress-induced submotivations grow increasingly subtle. If we can't have better day-to-day continuity, I wish we could at least be given better data on the original misery indices. Especially since I have to start each day almost from scratch. Fortunately, the situation was so chaotic that consistency isn't much required, or even expected by the subject ... "

Her voice was pure professionalism, the words unrelated to any concern of mine. Albert Morris clearly wasn't the only skilled contract laborer hired for obscure projects by an eccentric trillionaire.

Our burly escorts took us to a door beyond the lounge/waiting room. A visible ray scanned their blue-striped foreheads and opened the portal, revealing a huge chamber divided by rows of heavy pillars to support the mansion overhead. We strode quickly through this concrete forest, glimpsing various laboratories on all sides. To my left, the equipment had to do with dittoing, as you'd expect -- freezers, imprinting units, kilns, and such, plus a few I didn't recognize. To my right lay the kind of gear involved in human biology and medicine -- almost a miniature real people hospital, augmented with the latest brain scanner/a.n.a.lyzers.

That is, I guessed guessed they were the latest. Albert is -- or was -- an interested amateur who studiously read articles about the brain psychopathology of evildoers. A fascination that I, as a frankie, do not seem to share. they were the latest. Albert is -- or was -- an interested amateur who studiously read articles about the brain psychopathology of evildoers. A fascination that I, as a frankie, do not seem to share.

The guards escorted us to another waiting area, outside a sealed doorway. Through a narrow window I glimpsed an individual pacing nervously, barking sharp questions at somebody out of sight. The interrogator's skin was burnished-bright and expensive synthetic tendons bunched, almost like a man's. Few could afford bodies like that one, let alone to use them in bulk quant.i.ties. It was the second high-cla.s.s Kaolin-ditto I had seen in an hour. He kept glancing at a nearby wall where multiple bubble displays floated and jostled, ballooning outward in reaction to his gaze, showing events in many time zones.

I noticed that the UK factory was prominent in several bubbles, revealing that emergency teams still moved about, but with less frantic urgency than before, having apparently succeeded at limiting the prion attack. I'd wager that production might resume before dawn, in remote sections of the factory.

Another bubbleview gazed down on the smoldering ruins of a small house -- Albert's home, and probably his crematorium. Alas.

"Come away from there, please," said one of my escorts, in a mild tone that implied a second warning would be less courteous. I left the window and joined Palloid, who lay on the slim mattress of a nearby hospital gurney. Pal's little ferret-golem was licking some wounds it received during our brief battle gaining entrance to Universal Kilns.

As realPal expected, the tunnels laboriously dug by fanatic protestor groups -- both Lum's and Gadarene's -- had already been discovered by someone. Hidden mechanical guardians, vigilant and much longer lasting than clay, pounced when we came through. But clay is versatile. And those robo-wardens never faced a squadron of attacking mini-Pals! By the time I followed close behind, the battle was mostly over. I found one Palloid standing amid shards of its ditto-comrades and melted fragments of the mechanical guards. His refractive fur smoldered and most of the tiny combat beetles it had carried were gone. But enemy sentinels were gone and our path stood clear for a dash into the factory proper, searching for my gray brother, before he was duped into committing a crime.

As it turned out, our warning came too late. Still, the gray must have realized something independently. His last-minute dive into the foul belly of a forklift was courageous and resourceful. At least, I hoped the authorities would see it that way. If they were shown the whole story.

Waiting in the underground anteroom, Pal's little golem soon piped up with a complaint.

"Hey! What does it take to get some meditcal attention meditcal attention around here? Anybody notice I'm damaged? How about a pretty nurse? Or a can of s.p.a.ckle and a putty knife?" around here? Anybody notice I'm damaged? How about a pretty nurse? Or a can of s.p.a.ckle and a putty knife?"

One guard stared at him, then muttered into a wrist mike. Soon an orange utility rox showed up, devoid of any features to show the s.e.x of its original, and started applying varied sprays to Palloid's wounds. I, too, had suffered a burn or two skirmishing near the tunnels, but did you see me whining?

Minutes pa.s.sed. A lot of them. I realized it must be Wednesday already. Great. Maybe I should have spent yesterday at the beach, after all.

While we waited, a messenger-dit came hurrying downstairs from the mansion proper, jogging on long legs, bearing a small Teflon container. Palloid wrinkled his wet nose, sneezing in distaste. "Whatever he's got in that box, it's been disinfected about fifty different ways," he commented. "Smells like a mix of alcohol, benzene, bacteena, and that foam stuff they were using back at UK."

The messenger knocked, then entered. I heard platinum Kaolin grind out, "Finally!" "Finally!" -- before we were left again to cool our heels, decaying with each pa.s.sing minute. No sooner did the repair nurse finish patching Palloid than my little friend chirped again, demanding another favor. -- before we were left again to cool our heels, decaying with each pa.s.sing minute. No sooner did the repair nurse finish patching Palloid than my little friend chirped again, demanding another favor.

"Hey, chum, how's about giving me a reader, eh? Gotta stay productive, right? My rig recently joined a book club. He wants to catch up on Moby-Dit Moby-Dit for their next meeting. I might as well cover some chapters while we're sitting around." for their next meeting. I might as well cover some chapters while we're sitting around."

The nerve of the guy! Suppose he actually got to read a few pages. Did he actually expect to inload anything to realPal? Yeah sure, Yeah sure, I thought. I thought. As if you and I are ever leaving this place. As if you and I are ever leaving this place.

To my surprise, the guard shrugged and went to a cabinet, pulled out a battered net-plaque, and tossed it onto the gurney near Palloid. Soon the little golem was pawing his way through an online fiction index, searching for the latest best-seller about a seagoing golem so huge that its energy cells would take decades to run down ... a monsterdit imprinted with the tormented soul of a half-crazed savant who must then chase his dire creation as it runs amuck across the seven seas, smashing ships and denouncing its adamant pursuer for about a thousand pages. There's been a rash of stories and films like that lately, featuring dittos in conflict with their archetype originals. I hear this one's well written and full of arty existential angst. But Albert Morris never had a taste for high literature.