Kiln People Part 28

But despite the appearance of lonely desolation, today's desert isn't the same one our ancestors faced. Whenever we ran low on water, something always came up. Like when we came across an area dotted with abandoned squatters' huts, more than a century old, perched on crude cement slabs with rusting steel roofs. One had ancient s.h.a.g carpeting, so thick with dust that it sported a thriving shade ecosystem. The cabin's clogged plumbing offered a cistern where we managed to refill the jug with sc.u.mmy rainwater, unappetizing but welcome nonetheless. Another time, Ritu found a drip pool just inside a defunct mineshaft. I wasn't happy about drinking the mineral-steeped brew, but modern chelating treatments should eliminate any toxins, if we made it to civilization promptly.

So, while our trek was an adventure -- often miserably uncomfortable -- it never became a matter of life-or-death. On several occasions we spotted the glint of a robotic weather station or the dun-colored housing of an ecowebcam. So calling for help was always an option if we got into serious trouble. We had good reasons not not to call. It was a matter of choice. That made the journey bearable. to call. It was a matter of choice. That made the journey bearable.

In fact, Ritu and I found enough spare energy to pa.s.s the time as we trudged along, continuing our conversation about recent dramas and parasensies we had seen. Like the cla.s.sic cliche you see all the time -- a duplicate claims to be the "real one," accusing some imposter of taking over his normal life. On a higher plane, we had both seen Red Like Me, Red Like Me, the docudrama about a woman whose permanent skin condition made her look unbrown -- the docudrama about a woman whose permanent skin condition made her look unbrown -- unreal unreal to most people -- so she couldn't go anywhere without being treated as a golem. We all put up with being "mere property" much of the time, because it all evens out, right? But this heroine never got to take her turn as citizen/master. The story reminded me of Pal, stuck in his life-support chair, unable to experience the world fully except through dittos. The modern bargain isn't always fair. to most people -- so she couldn't go anywhere without being treated as a golem. We all put up with being "mere property" much of the time, because it all evens out, right? But this heroine never got to take her turn as citizen/master. The story reminded me of Pal, stuck in his life-support chair, unable to experience the world fully except through dittos. The modern bargain isn't always fair.

That's how I learned why Ritu came on this trip in person, instead of sending a gray. It turns out she's handicapped, too. She can't make reliable copies. They often come out wrong.

All right, millions of folks can't use kilns at all, suffering the disadvantage of just one, linear life. Bigots call them "soulless," thinking it happens to those who lack a true Standing Wave to copy. The heritable deficit can make it hard to get a job or win a mate. Indeed, today's heartless version of capital punishment severs a felon's Bevvisov-nexus, preventing him from imprinting, trapping him forever in the confines of a single body.

Many tens tens of millions can animate only crude, shambling caricatures, able to mow the lawn or paint a fence -- but no more than that. of millions can animate only crude, shambling caricatures, able to mow the lawn or paint a fence -- but no more than that.

Ritu's problem is different. She imprints dittos of great subtlety and intelligence, but many are frankies, diverging radically. "When I was a teenager, they'd often come out of the kiln resentful, even hating me! Instead of helping to achieve my goals, some tried sabotaging them, or put me in embarra.s.sing situations.

"Only in recent years did I reach a kind of equilibrium. Now, maybe half of my golems do what I want. The rest wander off, mostly harmlessly. Still, I always install strong transponder pellets, to make sure they behave."

The awkward confession came after we'd been walking for hours, fatigue wearing away her reticent sh.e.l.l. I mumbled sympathetically, lacking the nerve to tell her that I never made frankies. (Till yesterday's green sent that strange message, that is. And I'm still not sure I believe it.) As for Ritu's problem, my professional readings in psychopathology left room for one conclusion -- the daughter of Yosil Maharal had deep psychological troubles that stay mute while she's safely confined to her natural skin. But dittoing unleashes them with callous amplification. A cla.s.sic case of suppressed self-hatred, A cla.s.sic case of suppressed self-hatred, I thought, then chided myself for diagnosing another person on slim evidence. I thought, then chided myself for diagnosing another person on slim evidence.

This explained why she accompanied me in person, Tuesday evening. It was clearly important to help investigate her father's old desert lodge. To ensure it got done right, she must come the old-fashioned way.

A lot of our conversation -- including this confession -- was recorded on the little transcriber planted under the skin behind my ear. I felt bad about that, but saw no way to stop it. Maybe I'll erase that part later, when I get a chance.

The Jesse Helms International Combat Range.

From a distance, it looks like a fairly typical military base in the desert -- a green oasis dotted with swaying palms, tennis courts and resort-scale swimming pools. The barracks for quartering troops during wartime seem appropriately spartan -- tree-shaded cabana-style residence bungalows in muted pastels, cloistered near cybersim stations, practice arenas, and zen contemplation gardens. Everything needed by soldiers seeking to hone their martial spirit.

In stark contrast to those stoical training grounds, brash hotels jut skyward near the main gate, serving journalists and fight aficionados who converge in person for each major battle. Killwire barriers keep out reporters and flitting hobbycams, so the warriors inside may concentrate without interruption. Preparing their souls for battle.

Far beyond the oasis, under a natural hillock surrounded by tire ruts, lay the underground bowels of the base -- a support complex never viewed by millions of fans who dial in for each televised clash. Below reside all the special weapon fabricators and customized golem-presses required by a modern military. Another subterranean mound, several kilometers away, offers guest facilities to visiting armies who come several times a year to brave weeks of feverish struggle, beyond a range of hills -- in the battleground proper.

"Well, it doesn't look as if the war's over," Ritu commented as we took turns peering through a hand-held ocular, one of a few items salvaged from my ruined Volvo. Even standing on a crest five kilometers outside the boundary, you could tell; the grudge match between PEZ and Indonesia still ran hot. Hotel parking areas were full. And the far southern sky glittered with floatcams and relaysats.

Oh, something was going on, below that distant horde of buzzing voyeur-eyes, just behind an escarpment of granite cliffs. Sporadic rumbles -- like angry thunder -- kept spilling over that craggy barrier. On several occasions, powerful booms made the very air throb around Ritu and me. Those detonations escorted flashes of harsh light so brilliant that brief shadows danced across the sun-drenched terrain.

Something very close to h.e.l.l was unfolding beyond the escarpment. A fiery maelstrom of death, more violent and merciless than our savage ancestors could have imagined ... and you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone alive in our crowded world who felt badly about it.

"So," my companion asked. "How do we get in to see your soldier-girlfriend? Do we stroll up to the main gate and have her paged?"

I shook my head. If only it were that easy. All during our hard slog across the desert, this stage weighed heavily on my mind.

"I don't think it'd be a good idea to attract attention."

"No kidding. Last I heard, you were a suspect in a major crime."

"And dead."

"Oh yes, and dead. That could raise a stir when you present your retina for an ID scan. So then. Do you want me me to do it? I can rent a room. Let us finally sc.r.a.pe off this makeup." She gestured at the gray pseudoskin that covered both of us, looking rather weathered after many hours of sun and harsh wind. "I could take a hot bath while you call your friend." to do it? I can rent a room. Let us finally sc.r.a.pe off this makeup." She gestured at the gray pseudoskin that covered both of us, looking rather weathered after many hours of sun and harsh wind. "I could take a hot bath while you call your friend."

I shook my head. "Of course it's up to you, Ritu. But I doubt you should reveal yourself, either. Even if the police aren't after you, there's still Aeneas Kaolin to consider."

"If that was Aeneas who shot at us, on the highway. Seeing ain't believing, Albert." that was Aeneas who shot at us, on the highway. Seeing ain't believing, Albert."

"Hm. Will you bet your life it wasn't him? Clearly, Kaolin and your father were engaged in something big. Something disturbing. All signs indicate they had a parting of ways. It may have led to your father's death on the very same highway where we were ambushed -- "

Ritu raised a hand. "You convinced me. We need a secure web port to find out what's going on, before letting anyone know we survived."

"And Clara's just the one to arrange it." I raised the ocular again. "a.s.suming we cross the next few kilometers and get her attention."

"Any ideas how to do that?"

I pointed left, away from the main gate of the base, toward a ramshackle encampment that ran along the killwire fence, some distance beyond the glitzy hotels. Multicolored figures could be seen moving amid a lurid variety of tents, mobile homes, and makeshift arenas, giving the impression of an anarchist's carnival.

"Down there. That's That's where we go next." where we go next."

27.

Shards of Heaven ... as Greenie learns there are worse things than dying ...

Pal's little ferret-ditto rode my shoulder as we retreated from the shuttered front entrance of the Rainbow Lounge, heading around back to find another way inside. A big security fence blocked the service alley, but I didn't have to mess with it. The gate was ajar. It must have been left that way when a large van pa.s.sed inside. We squeezed through, then sauntered past the vehicle, looking it over.

FINAL OPTIONS, INC.

That was what the hologo banner said, with angelic cherubs beckoning graciously. A great big dish transmitter on the vehicle's roof looked handcrafted, rather ornate and much larger than you need for a satellite data link. As we sidled past, my skin tingled, a bit like the recent fizzing sensation of being renewed.

"A lot of energy in that van," Palloid commented, arching his back, letting the fur bristle.

"Have you heard of these guys?" I asked, shivering till we got past.

"Some. Here and there." Palloid's voice was low and terse.

Chilly cryosteam shrouded thick, insulated cables, snaking between the van and the back door of the building, where kitschy organ music filled the dim interior. Warily, I stepped over the cables into a cavernous chamber where several dozen cloaked forms could be made out, swaying to dirgelike harmonies.

"What're they doing?" Pal asked snidely. "Filming a new episode of Vincent Price Theater Vincent Price Theater?"

I was keenly aware of what happened in this place, only yesterday, when these creatures managed to fool one of Albert's best grays, tricking him into letting them plant a fiendish bomb in his gut. If they could manage that, a miserable frankie like me had better be careful. Under my skin-deep dye job, I was still humble green.

Adjusting to the light, I saw that all the robed forms wore the same distinctive reddish shade as the one who barred the front door to the Rainbow Lounge. All except a central figure lying on a raised dais, who looked so pale that I first a.s.sumed it must be an ivory ditto.

But no, the supine shape was a real person, with spa.r.s.e patches of gray hair sticking out amid cl.u.s.ters of attached electrodes. Silky red cloth covered much of her heavy, flaccid form. Most people today strive to keep their organic bodies in good shape. (Getting enough of a tan to not be mistaken for a pleasure-golem!) But some folks have just one use for the body they were born in -- to serve as a memory vessel, pa.s.sing impressions from one day's set of dittos to the next. Evidently, Irene had been on the cutting edge of this trend. No wonder she ran a popular emporium dedicated to fashionable excess!

And yet, from the requiem sounds reverberating all around, I had to guess that Irene's life -- large as it may have been -- was finally coming to an end. Her chest rose and fell unevenly beneath the coverlet. Tubes dripped medicinal liquids while a nearby metabolic monitor beeped to a soft, erratic meter.

I saw no kiln. No rows of waiting ditto blanks. So, she wasn't busy making ghosts, as some do when they know they're dying -- a final spate of autonomous duplicates to handle last-minute details ... or to say all those things you never dared to utter while alive. Most of these Irene-copies looked rather elderly. They all might have been present when grayAlbert had his "repairs."

Did Irene stop duplicating herself at the same time, or soon after? A very odd coincidence, if it was one.

Watching from the shadows, I saw one Irene standing aside from the corny threnody ceremony, conversing with a purple golem whose huge eyes and stylishly curved beak resembled those of a hawk.

"Horus," Palloid muttered.

"Horace?"

"Horus!" He gestured at the visitor's bright robe, covered with inscriptions and fancy embroidered figures. "Egyptian G.o.d of death and afterlife. Kinda pretentious, by my taste."

Of course, I thought. I thought. Final Options. One of those outfits offering specialized a.s.sistance to the dead or dying. If there's a hypothetical service anybody might want, you can find a million of the bored-unemployed eager to provide it. Final Options. One of those outfits offering specialized a.s.sistance to the dead or dying. If there's a hypothetical service anybody might want, you can find a million of the bored-unemployed eager to provide it.

I edged closer while hawkface explained items in a glossy brochure.

" ... Here's one of our more popular options. Full cryonic suspension! I have facilities to imbue your archetype's organic body with the right combination of scientifically balanced stabilization agents, then begin reducing its temperature till we can deliver her to our main storage facility in Redlands, which has its own deep geothermal power supply, armored against anything short of a direct cometary impact! All your rig has to do is imprint a release -- "

"Cryonic suspension doesn't interest us," replied the red golem, representing her hive. "It has been verified repeatedly that a frozen human brain can't maintain a Standing Wave. It vanishes, never to return."

"But there are memories memories, stored in nearly a quadrillion synapses and intracellular -- "

"Memories aren't h.o.m.ologous -- not the same thing as who you are. who you are. Anyway, most of those memories can only be accessed by a functioning copy of the original Standing Wave." Anyway, most of those memories can only be accessed by a functioning copy of the original Standing Wave."

"Well, dittos dittos can be frozen. Suppose one accompanies the original head into storage. Then someday, when technology has advanced sufficiently, some combination of -- " can be frozen. Suppose one accompanies the original head into storage. Then someday, when technology has advanced sufficiently, some combination of -- "

"Please," the red Irene cut in. "We aren't interested in science fiction. Let others pay high fees to serve as your experimental guinea pigs. We want a simple service, the reason we called your company.

"We choose the antenna."

"The antenna." The purple hawkman nodded. "I'm required by law to say the technique is unverified, with no confirmed successes, despite many claimed resonance detections -- "

"We have reason to believe your past failures resulted from a lack of concentration, desire, focus. These we'll provide, if you do your job as advertised."

Horus straightened.

"The antenna, then. I still need a release. Please have your archetype put her life-imprint here."

He pulled a heavy, flat rectangle out of the folds of his robe, tearing off a filmy plastic covering that released a dense, steamy cloud. The red ditto took the tablet gingerly in both hands by its edges, careful not to touch the moist surface.

"I'll return in a few minutes. There are preparations to complete." Horus spun away toward the van amid a flourish of glittering robes.

Palloid and I watched the red emissary pa.s.s through a crowd of her sisters, who parted with no apparent signal. She stepped up to the dais, holding the tablet high over the pale figure lying there. The original, pale-skinned Irene reacted by lifting one hand, then another. She's conscious, She's conscious, I realized. I realized.

Gently, two dittos approached from opposite sides to restrain her.

Lower came the tablet, closer to that sallow face till her warm breath condensed droplets on the surface. She inhaled deeply, then the red ditto pressed the clay slab down, quickly and with enough force to warp it around realIrene's head ... holding it there a few seconds, till a near-perfect mask formed -- mouth agape in a reflex gasp.

No breath was needed in the short time it took for the raw clay to transform before our eyes, rippling swiftly through several color spectra -- including some hues that ancient hermits used to seek in far corners of the world, during the long dark era before soulistics. The mouth area, especially, seemed to flicker briefly with faint lightning.

Then the solid mask lifted away, leaving realIrene ashudder but unharmed.

"I always hate having to do that," Palloid muttered. "G.o.ddam lawyers."

"Signatures can be forged, Pal. Same with fingerprints, cryptociphers, and retinal scans. But a soul-seal is unique."

Irene now had a binding contract with Final Options, to spend the last moments of her organic life buying something else, something she considered more precious. Well, well. Here's to the Big Deregulation. The state has no business getting in between you and your spiritual adviser, especially when it comes to that decisive choice -- how to make your final exit.

Too bad poor Albert never had any say in the matter. Partly thanks to Irene, I bet.

Palloid swiveled and grew tense on my shoulder. I turned in time to notice a figure approach us from one side. It was another red ditto, looking a bit ragged like the others, but still formidable. "Mr. Morris." She bowed her head slightly. "Is it you? Or another? Shall I introduce myself?"

"None of the above," I answered, not caring if the cryptic answer confused her. "I know you, Irene. But I'm not the fellow you blew up last night."

She answered with a resigned shrug. "When I saw you, just now, I couldn't help but hope."

"Hope? For what?"

"That the news reports somehow lied. I hoped you were the same ditto that left here yesterday."

"What are you trying to pull? You know what happened to that gray. You You murdered him. Blew him up inside Universal Kilns! Only his final act of heroism prevented your bomb from ruining the place." murdered him. Blew him up inside Universal Kilns! Only his final act of heroism prevented your bomb from ruining the place."

"Our bomb." The red nodded resignedly. "So people will say. But honestly, we thought we were implanting a spy apparatus, spy apparatus, tuned to sense and evaluate experimental soul-fields in the UK Research Division -- " tuned to sense and evaluate experimental soul-fields in the UK Research Division -- "

"Oh, what a pile," Palloid commented.

"No, truly! News of the sabotage attack on UK came as a complete surprise. It showed how fully we were used. Betrayed."

"Right. Tell me about betrayal!"

Oblivious to sarcasm, she nodded. "Oh, I shall. We at once realized that an ally set us up to take the onus for this vicious attack, as part of a multilayered defense, to protect the true villain from retribution. Even if your gray's obscuring tactics had been perfect -- even if he masked his trail, cutting all direct links leading back to his employers -- a crime of such magnitude would not go unsolved. Universal Kilns will spare no expense to find those responsible. So, after several layers of decoys are peeled back, we were positioned to take ultimate blame.

"Are you the first harbinger of penalization, ditto Morris?"

"Oh, I may be a harbinger all right, but I'm not not Morris," I muttered, so low she didn't notice. Morris," I muttered, so low she didn't notice.

"We are a bit surprised to see you," the red ditto conceded. "Instead of UK Security, or the police. Perhaps they follow soon? No matter. We'll no longer be here. We are departing shortly, while still able to choose the manner of our going."

I wasn't swallowing it.

"You claim innocence about the prion bomb. What about the attack on realAlbert, slaughtering him in his home?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she asked. "The mastermind behind all of this -- our common enemy, it seems -- had to cover his own role after using us. That meant leaving no loose ends. He killed you a bit more swiftly than he killed me, but just as ruthlessly. In short order, you and I will both be no more.

"That is, on this plane of reality," she added.

I glanced at the dais, which had been rolled much closer to the van. Hissing cryo-cables were being attached to a dense array of sifter tendrils, piled around the pale head of realIrene. "You're committing some kind of fancy suicide. That'll leave you unable to testify as a full person in a court of law. Are you sure you want to do that? Won't it only benefit your former partner, who betrayed you? Shouldn't you help catch and punish him?"

"Why? Revenge doesn't matter. We were dying anyway ... a matter of weeks, only. We took part in his scheme as a desperate gamble, hoping to stave off that fate. We trusted, gambled, and lost. But at least we still have some choice in the manner of our pa.s.sing."

Palloid snarled. "Revenge may not matter to you you, but Albert was my friend. I want to get the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who did this."