Kiln People Part 39

It seems they pretty much gave Maharal carte blanche, I realized, waggling my fingers and hands beneath an ultra-secure, government-issue chador. Several viewglobes grew and shrank, responding to my flitting eyes. One conveyed a surface map of the region, portraying the army base with its training, relaxation, tanning, and imprinting facilities, along with nearby four-star hotels that cater to avid fight fans. Some distance southwest, beyond a sheer escarpment, lay the battleground itself, where national teams fight for glory and to settle disputes without bloodshed. In a region as cratered as the Moon, a patch of desert had been sacrificed for sport, and to spare the rest of the planet from war. I realized, waggling my fingers and hands beneath an ultra-secure, government-issue chador. Several viewglobes grew and shrank, responding to my flitting eyes. One conveyed a surface map of the region, portraying the army base with its training, relaxation, tanning, and imprinting facilities, along with nearby four-star hotels that cater to avid fight fans. Some distance southwest, beyond a sheer escarpment, lay the battleground itself, where national teams fight for glory and to settle disputes without bloodshed. In a region as cratered as the Moon, a patch of desert had been sacrificed for sport, and to spare the rest of the planet from war.

That much the public knew.

Only now I could also follow a maze of tunnels and caverns below below the base, heading in the opposite direction. A secret fortress created for a vast army of ready-to-serve warriors. Some portions were openly labeled. Other areas were mere vague outlines on the map, shaded to indicate stronger layers of secrecy, requiring pa.s.swords and ID verifiers I lacked. Nor did I care about that. Matters of national security didn't interest me. What riveted my attention was the fact that this network of man-made caves appeared to stretch quite some distance eastward, beyond the formal military zone, deep below state and private lands. the base, heading in the opposite direction. A secret fortress created for a vast army of ready-to-serve warriors. Some portions were openly labeled. Other areas were mere vague outlines on the map, shaded to indicate stronger layers of secrecy, requiring pa.s.swords and ID verifiers I lacked. Nor did I care about that. Matters of national security didn't interest me. What riveted my attention was the fact that this network of man-made caves appeared to stretch quite some distance eastward, beyond the formal military zone, deep below state and private lands.

Toward Urraca Mesa -- I saw -- -- I saw -- the destination Ritu and I were aiming for when we first set out, Tuesday night. the destination Ritu and I were aiming for when we first set out, Tuesday night.

Coincidence? I had already begun to suspect that Yosil Maharal chose the site of his "vacation cabin" with great care, many years ago.

Bodily pangs forced me to shrug off the chador and switch to old-fashioned viewscreens, in order to drink and eat while I worked. Fortunately, this part of the cavern was also a National Leadership Enclave -- a habitat set aside for high government officials, in case of some dire emergency. Food and other provisions lay plentifully stacked on nearby shelves. At first sight, the cans and packages looked untouched, but quite a few were missing in back, as if someone had been raiding the larder, carefully rearranging intact goods up front to hide the pilferage. I availed myself of my first fully satisfying meal in two days -- my tax dollars well spent, I figure -- plus a double mug of fizzy Liquid Sleep. That helped a lot. Still, I found myself wishing I were black instead of organic brown. I concentrate much better when I'm ebony.

"Superimpose the location of the mountain cabin owned by Yosil Maharal," I ordered.

The spot instantly glimmered onscreen -- a flashing amber speck at the end of a winding road. If I asked to zoom closer, the computer would retrieve recent skyviews showing the house and drive, or even catalogue nearby foliage by species and chlorophyll reflectivity profiles. The cabin lay a few kilometers beyond the easternmost extension of the underground golem base, separated from my present map locale by a single oblong plateau.

I no longer believed in coincidence.

"So, what d'you figure, Al?" I mumbled to myself. "Did Maharal commute commute all the way around that furshluginer mesa, in order to come down here through the front door? Naw, that wasn't the Professor's style. Come and go without a trace, that was Dr. Yosil! Even a back door would've left him open to detection and observation every time he came down here to raid the government's larder, or to pick up nifty items for his cloak-and-dagger scheme ... whatever it was. h.e.l.l, some war fan with a wandering voyeur drone might have spotted him, if he came across the surface." all the way around that furshluginer mesa, in order to come down here through the front door? Naw, that wasn't the Professor's style. Come and go without a trace, that was Dr. Yosil! Even a back door would've left him open to detection and observation every time he came down here to raid the government's larder, or to pick up nifty items for his cloak-and-dagger scheme ... whatever it was. h.e.l.l, some war fan with a wandering voyeur drone might have spotted him, if he came across the surface."

No, I went on silently. I went on silently. If Professor Maharal had been sneaking into this base, he'd want to come all the way under concealment. If Professor Maharal had been sneaking into this base, he'd want to come all the way under concealment.

Jabbing my finger repeatedly at the map-globe, I commanded, "Avatar, find microseismic data for the subregion indicated. Use a Schulman-Watanabe tomographic correlation to sift for unmapped subterranean pa.s.sages, connecting this this location and location and that that one." one."

The military intelligence program I had hijacked was a pretty good one. Yet it balked, unable or unwilling to comply: "The area in question was last given a detailed seismic survey eight years ago. At that time, no subterranean pa.s.sages existed in the area you indicated. Since then, systematic seismometry in the specified region has been limited to watching for attempted area penetration by unauthorized interlopers. No inward-directed tunneling has been detected."

So. There had been no hidden pa.s.sageways through the mesa when the secret base was established, and no sign of outsiders trying to get in since then. Was I barking up the wrong tree?

"Wait a minute. What about digging activity from within within the base, aimed outward?" the base, aimed outward?"

I had to rephrase the question several times, forcing the avatar to reexamine the security system's record of micro-temblors and sonic vibrations in surrounding rock layers.

"What about areas on the base perimeter with seismic activity levels well above normal?"

"There have been no unexplained activity levels more than fifteen percent above normal."

Rats. So much for that idea. Too bad. It seemed a good one.

I was about to give up ... then decided to follow this line just a bit farther. "Show me the highest-level activity loci with with accepted explanations." accepted explanations."

The map of the underground facility and its surroundings now bloomed with overlapping bands of color, showing peak levels of sonic and seismic noise during the last few years. "There," I pointed. An area at the perimeter zoomed toward me, haloed by ripples of red and orange. Appended was a notification -- sealed and date-stamped -- explaining that an ongoing program of boreholes had been ordered, for the purpose of groundwater quality sampling.

But a cross-check with the base environmental protection office showed no data from these samples! Moreover, the area in question happened to be at the exact spot closest to Urraca Mesa.

Bingo.

"So, Ritu. Your dad hacked the military's security system and forged approval for a seismic variance. All the cover he needed to burrow away to his heart's content. Impressive!

"Of course, it still meant having to dig outward outward from the interior, instead of coming in from the outside. What did Maharal do, smuggle in tunneling equipment?" from the interior, instead of coming in from the outside. What did Maharal do, smuggle in tunneling equipment?"

No, there was a better explanation. An easier way to get the job done.

I thought of checking the base master inventory, to see if someone had been pilfering from the golem stores, taking some of the raw soldier blanks away to use as mining labor. But those auditors Chen had spotted in the armory ... they'd be accessing the inventory system right now for their tallies. They might notice if I snooped that database at the same time, secure portal or no.

Better go in person, then. See where this trail takes me.

I started to sign off, but hesitated, my eyes darting among the beautiful viewglobes floating above the desk, each of them responding to my attention by ballooning larger, eagerly, voluptuously. Linked to the wide world again, I felt it draw me, call to me, tempt me with opportunities -- To contact Clara and let her know I was alive.

To access Nell's emergency cache.

To communicate with Inspector Blane and find out what was new in the Beta Case.

To check police and insurance company reports about the sabotage attempt at Universal Kilns, and find out if I was still a "top suspect."

To get in touch with Pal and have him send a whole army of his wonderful sneak-and-grab dittos, to help me as I headed -- vulnerably real -- into hazardous territory.

I had meant to do all of those things, and more, when I first asked Chen's little ape-dit to find me a safe access port. Only now I held back.

Contacting Clara might only serve to implicate her in my actions, perhaps ruining her career.

Nell's cache? What could it contain that I didn't already know? All of my dittos vanished days ago. The last one -- a sarcastic ebony -- was blasted into supersonic pottery shards on Tuesday, around midnight. Since no one else knew how to access the cache, checking it would be a waste of time. Worse, it might alert my enemies.

As for the UK attack, blame seemed to be shifting already. Open news reports were now showing a raid -- led by the LSA's Blane, of all people -- breaking down the doors of a recently shuttered kink bar in dittotown, the Rainbow Lounge. A lurid tale of conspiracy, double-cross, and ritual suicide was rapidly unfolding. One disturbing image showed a cremated woman, surrounded by her own crisped dittos, like the pyre of some Viking potentate departing for Valhalla with an escort of sacrificed thralls.

Another view hovered over the maestra of Studio Neo, Gineen Wammaker, who swatted at voyeurcams that buzzed around her elegant head while denying that she had any part of the conspiracy, crying out, "I was framed!"

That made me chuckle ...

... till I recalled what it meant. I wasn't the sole patsy, or the only person set up as a fall guy. Reputations were toppling all over town, from religious nuts to the ditto Emanc.i.p.ation movement, to purveyors of perversion like the maestra. Yet no one mentioned the three names that worried me most.

Beta. Kaolin. Maharal Seared in memory, I could still see that platinum golem suddenly appearing along a desert highway to bushwhack me. Because of something I knew? Or perhaps something I was about about to find out -- probably having to do with Kaolin's ex-partner and friend, with whom he was now at war. Somehow, I had become caught up in a desperate struggle between mad geniuses. And it didn't even matter that Yosil Maharal was dead! Nowadays, mere death offers no guarantees. In fact, I could to find out -- probably having to do with Kaolin's ex-partner and friend, with whom he was now at war. Somehow, I had become caught up in a desperate struggle between mad geniuses. And it didn't even matter that Yosil Maharal was dead! Nowadays, mere death offers no guarantees. In fact, I could feel feel Maharal's reach, extending beyond the grave, keeping the war hot. Driving the tyc.o.o.n to desperate measures. Maharal's reach, extending beyond the grave, keeping the war hot. Driving the tyc.o.o.n to desperate measures.

More to the point, Maharal had helped to design this very facility I was sitting in. Given his apt.i.tude for skulduggery, Ritu's father might have laid any number of traps for the unwary. Especially if you stopped in one place too long.

Better to stay a moving target. Much as I wanted to linger and study the news, probing the Web for details, it really was time to get on.

I folded the government-issue chador under my belt, then headed east along a corridor I'd seen on the map -- a pa.s.sageway that supposedly should end about a hundred and fifty meters from there in a large storage room -- followed by solid rock.

Only it wasn't just a storage room.

True, there were shelves, piled endlessly with machine parts and tools, followed by freezers containing hundreds of ditto blanks, still doughy and unimprinted, ready to be used by the Prexy and Dodecs, should they ever come down here to hide.

To the naked eye, it all seemed above board.

My eyes weren't nude, however. The scout uniform that I wore had lovely infrared scanners, pattern detectors and Dopplers that showed swirls and eddies in the way air gusted across the room. I was no expert at using all that stuff, but I wasn't exactly clueless, either. I learned as I searched. Anyway, it was obvious which wall to go to.

The seismic anomalies emanated from somewhere around here.

I didn't expect to find any obvious signs of a tunneling operation, but the place was actually spotless. Banks of tall, locked cabinets covered the wall in question, with no sign of anything behind them but native stone.

Which cupboard should this little doggie try? I pondered. I pondered. Even if I choose correctly, how do I get through? And what defenses might lie on the other side? Even if I choose correctly, how do I get through? And what defenses might lie on the other side?

Instrument readings didn't show much difference from one cabinet to the next. No swirls of cold, subterranean air leaking from the other side. No telltale heat signatures.

Maharal would've made sure that routine security patrols saw nothing to raise suspicions. Even in his arrogance, did the Professor imagine he could take on PEZ and the entire United States of America? Concealment was Yosil's only friend. No wonder he worked so hard at developing the skill. Even in his arrogance, did the Professor imagine he could take on PEZ and the entire United States of America? Concealment was Yosil's only friend. No wonder he worked so hard at developing the skill.

I fingered the small sidearm that came with the scout uniform -- a laser that could be adjusted into a tool for either a machinist or a sniper. Cutting through the locks would be no problem ... and then through the backing of each cabinet till I struck a hidden pa.s.sageway -- or else learned the flaw in all my fancy reasoning.

What about sensors or b.o.o.by traps? Could I find a way through without alerting whoever lurked on the other side of Urraca Mesa?

You keep thinking and acting as if Maharal is still alive!

Any tunnel was probably dusty and unused, ever since the professor crashed and burned way back on Monday. His residual golems would've decayed soon after that, leaving a silent sanctuary, with no one left to defend its secrets.

Sounds logical. Are you sure enough to stake your life on it?

Even if Maharal was dead, Kaolin Kaolin had proved himself active, inimical, and willing to do almost anything. What if the trillionaire was already there, waiting at the other side? had proved himself active, inimical, and willing to do almost anything. What if the trillionaire was already there, waiting at the other side?

Another notion occurred to me as I stood contemplating my next move -- a piece of advice Clara once offered: "When in doubt, try not to think like the dumb hero of some silly movied."

Charging into danger was one of those overused cinematic cliches, religiously adhered to by eight generations of brain-dead producers and directors. Another went: A hero must always a.s.sume that the authorities are evil, or useless, or bound to misunderstand. It helps keep the plot rolling if your protagonist never thinks of calling for help. A hero must always a.s.sume that the authorities are evil, or useless, or bound to misunderstand. It helps keep the plot rolling if your protagonist never thinks of calling for help.

I had been operating under that a.s.sumption for two days. And, well, after all, the cops were after me! Officially as a "material witness," but clearly I had been set up to be blamed for the sabotage attempt at Universal Kilns. Not to mention the fact that someone had tried to blow me up.

Twice!

Still, things were changing. The police and military were clearly upset about the missile attack on my home. Surely some of them were honest and competent enough to realize there were layers to this whole affair, running below surface appearances. What if I showed them how Maharal had hacked the system here at the base, abusing their trust and creating a back entrance for his personal use? It might help clear my name. There could even be a whistle-blower award!

Suppose I were to phone up my attorney. Have her call a meeting. Bring the base commandant together with a commissioner from the Human Protection Unit and a licensed Fair Witness, to make sure nothing can get hidden away ... It would would be a profound relief to tell all. The whole story, as far as I knew it. Just recount everything. Let battalions of professionals take over from there. be a profound relief to tell all. The whole story, as far as I knew it. Just recount everything. Let battalions of professionals take over from there.

And yet, my gut churned at the thought. It wouldn't feel right! It wouldn't feel right!

I was still running on a high of anger and combat hormones -- nothing else could have sustained me across the last few days. Indignation is a drug that burns long and hot. And it can only be properly experienced in your real body.

Me against Beta. Me against Kaolin. Me against Maharal. Bad guys, all of them, each in his own brilliantly evil way. Didn't their hatred make Bad guys, all of them, each in his own brilliantly evil way. Didn't their hatred make me me the hero? Their equal? the hero? Their equal?

That sardonic crack helped me step back.

It helped me decide what I had to do.

"A hero is someone who gets the job done, Albert," Clara once said. "Bravely when necessary. Courage is an admirable last resort, for when intelligence fails."

Okay, okay, I thought, feeling humility wash over me with a sense of cleansing relief. I thought, feeling humility wash over me with a sense of cleansing relief.

A man's got to know his limitations, and I've gone way beyond mine.

h.e.l.l, I'm not even a match for Beta! Kaolin and Maharal are clearly out of my league.

All right. Time to be a citizen. Let's do it.

Already bracing for the inevitable long interrogation ahead, I reached for my borrowed chador-telephone and started to turn around -- -- only to stagger back in surprise as a tall figure loomed toward me, out of the shadows!

The oversized humanoid shape emerged from around the corner of a nearby autokiln, lumbering at me with both arms outstretched.

The visor of the scout uniform flared with threat diagrams, covering the golem's silhouette with flaring auras and juttering symbols that might have meant something to a trained soldier. But the garish flood of data only smothered me in clouds of confusion. I threw back the visor from my face -- -- and was immediately struck by waves of odor. New-baked clay, rather sour. The harsh smell might have warned me, if I hadn't been relying on borrowed army equipment, instead of my own senses.

"Stop!" I warned, dropping the chador, which got tangled on the holster of my sidearm. Finally pulling the laser free, I frantically tried to find the safety switch. My wounded thumb, slippery with sweat, worked badly and the gloves didn't help.

"Don't come any closer. I'll shoot!"

The golem kept shambling forward, emitting a low groan. Something was wrong with it -- perhaps faulty imprinting or too-rapid baking. Whatever the cause, it wasn't slowing down or pausing for rational discussion!

I faced a sudden choice.

Try to dodge. Or shoot. You can't do both.

The safety clicked. The pistol abruptly throbbed with rea.s.suring power. I chose.

A hot beam tore through the golem, slicing off one arm, biting the torso.

It reacted with a roar, and charged. The heavy figure crashed into me as I threw up an arm.

Wrong choice.

41.

Oh No, Mr. Hands! ... a mixture in red and gray ...

Did you know, Albert, that the very first life forms may have been made of clay?"

Yosil's d.a.m.ned ghost won't stop talking. It just keeps yattering while the torment inflicted by his soul-stretching device gets worse by the hour. I yearn desperately to stifle his gray specter. Exorcise its unnatural haunting. Dispatch it to rejoin the maker it betrayed and destroyed, days ago.

Of course, that's what it wants -- my anger! To give me a focus. Pain will be a center for me to revolve around, while everything else crumbles.

"A Scotsman came up with the idea, Albert, almost a century ago, and it really was quite clever.

"By that time, biologists agreed that a rich soup of organic compounds must have formed on Earth, almost as soon as the planet cooled enough for liquid oceans. But what happened next? How did all those drifting amino acids and such get organized into tidy, self-replicating units? Cells, containing DNA and the machinery for reproduction, didn't just happen! Something got them jump-started!

"That something may have been vast beds of semi-porous clay, spanning whole sea bottoms, offering an enormous array of patterned surfaces to protect growing molecular cl.u.s.ters. Providing templates for the earliest organisms. Setting a few on the road to greatness."

Maharal's gray ghost preens, slapping its chest.

"Only now the road is coming full circle, as we return to our original form! original form! No longer organic, but creatures sculpted out of Mother Earth's own mineral flesh! Don't you find that interesting?" No longer organic, but creatures sculpted out of Mother Earth's own mineral flesh! Don't you find that interesting?"