Kiln People Part 42

"It's all about the Standing Wave Standing Wave that Jefty Anonnas found glimmering in that region of phase s.p.a.ce between neuron and molecule, between body and mind. The so-called soul-essence that Bevvisov learned to press into clay, proving that the ancient Sumerians had an inkling of a lost truth. The that Jefty Anonnas found glimmering in that region of phase s.p.a.ce between neuron and molecule, between body and mind. The so-called soul-essence that Bevvisov learned to press into clay, proving that the ancient Sumerians had an inkling of a lost truth. The motivational motivational essence that Bevvisov and I then imprinted onto Aeneas Kaolin's wonderful claynamation automatons, with results that stunned us all and transformed the world." essence that Bevvisov and I then imprinted onto Aeneas Kaolin's wonderful claynamation automatons, with results that stunned us all and transformed the world."

"So? What does this have to do with -- "

"I'm getting to that. Sustained by fields and atoms, like everything else, the Standing Wave is nevertheless so much more than the sum of our parts -- our memories and reflexes, our instincts and drives -- in much the same way that ripples on a sea show only the surface portions of a vastly complex tug and pull below."

I'm feeling another pulse approach. Watching the suspended platform, I've realized that it swings back and forth exactly twenty-three times between each painful throb of the machine.

"All of that sounds awfully pretty," I tell ditYosil. "But what about this experiment? So you've got my my Standing Wave bouncing back and forth, with the Standing Wave bouncing back and forth, with the two of me two of me acting as mirrors. Because I'm such a good copier that -- " acting as mirrors. Because I'm such a good copier that -- "

The next pulse hits, hard! I grunt and strain. Sometimes the effect is worse, like plucking harmonies out of catgut while it's still inside the cat. Then, abruptly, another of those echoes comes over me ...

... and I briefly find myself envisioning a moonlit landscape of dark plains and ravines, covered with opal glows and shadows, rolling along below me, as if viewed by a creature of the air.

Then it pa.s.ses.

I try to hold my train of thought, using the conversation as an anchor ... since my real real anchor, the organic Albert Morris, is dead, I'm told. anchor, the organic Albert Morris, is dead, I'm told.

"So, you use my Standing Wave ... because I'm such a good copier. And you're a b.l.o.o.d.y awful one. Is that right, Yosil?"

"Impudent, but correct. You see, it's fundamentally a matter of accounting accounting -- " -- "

"Of what?"

"Accounting, the way physicists and soulists do it. Adding up, arranging, or counting a.s.sortments of identical particles. Or anything else, for that matter! Grab a bunch of marbles out of a bag ... does it matter which one is which, if they all look alike? How many different ways can you sort them, if they're all the same? It turns out the statistics are totally different if each marble has something unique about it! A nick, a scratch, a label ... "

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking -- "

"This distinction is especially important at the quantum level. Particles can be counted in two ways -- as fermions fermions and and bosons bosons. Protons and electrons sort as fermions, which are forced to stay apart from one another by an exclusion principle that's more fundamental than entropy. Even if they seem identical and come from the same source, they have to be counted individually and occupy states that are quantum-separated by a certain minimum amount.

"But bosons love to mingle, overlap, merge, combine, march in step -- for example, in the amplified and coherent light waves generated by a laser. Photons are bosons, and they are anything but but aloof! Happily identical, they join together, superimpose -- " aloof! Happily identical, they join together, superimpose -- "

"Get to the point, will you?" I shout, or this could go on all night. I shout, or this could go on all night.

Yosil's ghost frowns at me.

"The point? Even though a golem-copy can be very much like its original, something always prevents the soul-duplicate from being truly identical ... or being counted with Bose statistics. That means it cannot be coherence-multiplied, the way light is in a laser. That is, it couldn't be, till I found a way! Starting with an excellent copier and an ego of just the right ductility -- " the way light is in a laser. That is, it couldn't be, till I found a way! Starting with an excellent copier and an ego of just the right ductility -- "

"So it's like a laser and you're using two of me to supply your mirror. What's your your role in all this?" role in all this?"

He grins.

"You'll supply the pure carrier waveform, Morris, since you're good at that. But the substance of the soul soul we're amplifying will be mine." we're amplifying will be mine."

Hearing this and looking at his facial expression -- oh, he's got Smersh-Foxleitner, all right. Stage four at least. Amoral, paranoid, and profoundly self-deceptive. The worst sufferers can believe seventeen different things before breakfast ... and sometimes brilliantly weave the incompatible notions together by noon!

"What about the G.o.d-level G.o.d-level part of your machine's stupid name?" I ask, not expecting to like the answer. "Isn't that unscientific? Even mystical?" part of your machine's stupid name?" I ask, not expecting to like the answer. "Isn't that unscientific? Even mystical?"

"Don't be rude, Albert. It's a metaphor, of course. At present we have no words to describe what I'm about to achieve. It transcends today's language the way Hamlet outsoliloquies a bon.o.bo chimp."

"Yeah, yeah. There have been Neo Age rumors about such 'transcendence' for as long as I can remember. Soul-projection machines and wild-eyed schemes to upload people upload people straight to heaven. You and Kaolin were pestered by such nonsense for decades. Now you're telling me there's a core of truth?" straight to heaven. You and Kaolin were pestered by such nonsense for decades. Now you're telling me there's a core of truth?"

"I am, though using true science rather than wishful thinking. When your own Standing Wave becomes a Bose condensate -- " ditYosil pauses, c.o.c.king his head, as if curious about a sound. Then, shaking his head, he seems ready to go on, enthusiastically describing his ambition to become something new -- something much bigger or better than the mere run of mortals. He opens his mouth -- -- as a noise penetrates the underground chamber, now clearly audible. A distant rumble from beyond one stony wall.

An instrument panel erupts with warning glows, some red, others amber. "Interlopers, "Interlopers," a cyber voice announces. "Interlopers in the tunnel ... " "Interlopers in the tunnel ... "

An image globe resolves in thin air, growing larger as we both feed it with our attention. Inside, we see dim figures marching along a murky corridor of undressed limestone. Sudden flashes pour from an outcrop, slicing one of the figures in half, but the rest of the armed force respond with uncanny quickness, swinging weapons up to fire, blasting hidden robo-sentinels. Soon the way is clear and they resume their steady march.

"Estimated arrival at this locale in forty-eight minutes ... "

Maharal's gray ghost shakes its head.

"I hoped for more time, but it can be done."

He hurries away, abandoning our conversation, returning to his preparations. Preparations that would use me -- -- use us! use us! Little Red insists. Little Red insists.

-- use us to help elevate his soul, amplifying it to some grandiose level of power. Typical b.l.o.o.d.y Smersh-Foxleitner. The mad scientist's disease.

I wonder. Could this really work? Might the ghost of a dead professor manage to transform himself beyond any need for an organic brain, or even a physical link to the world? Perhaps rising so high that life on a mere planet becomes trivial and boring? I could picture such a macro-Maharal ent.i.ty just heading off, seeking cosmic-scale adventures among the stars. Which'd be cool by me, I guess, so long as he went away and left this world alone.

But I have an uneasy feeling that ditYosil has in mind a more local kind of deification. Both more provincial and deeply controlling.

Many of the folks I know won't like what he'd become.

Oh, and the process will probably use up the "mirrors" of his ... glazier. Whatever the outcome, I don't figure i/we (gray/red) will much enjoy serving as Yosil's vehicle to reach this personal nirvana of his.

"You know -- " I began, hoping to distract him.

Only then another pulse struck.

45.

Desert Rox ... as Greenie is driven to ditspare ...

Tuesday's child is full of grace -- Wednesday's child is full of woe -- Thursday's child has far to go, and -- And? I wondered. After my eventful and generously extended span on Earth -- more than two whole days -- what next?

Not much, at the rate my body was starting to decay. I could feel the familiar signs of golem senescence creeping in, plus glimmerings of the salmon reflex, that urge to report home for memory inloading. To escape oblivion by returning to the one real organic brain where I I might yet live on. might yet live on.

A brain that might actually still exist! Just when I had grown accustomed to the idea that it was blown to bits, I wondered. Suppose Albert Morris lives, and I could somehow reach him before I dissolve. Would he have me back? Suppose Albert Morris lives, and I could somehow reach him before I dissolve. Would he have me back?

a.s.suming he still lived?

As Beta flew his agile little Harley through the night, that seemed a growing possibility! According to web reports I viewed while crammed behind Beta's pilot seat.

"That settles it," one of the amateur deduction mavens announced. one of the amateur deduction mavens announced. "They never found enough protoplasmic residue in that burnt house for a whole body!" "They never found enough protoplasmic residue in that burnt house for a whole body!"

"And see how the police are behaving. Munitions auditors still swarm all over, but the Human Protection Division is gone! That means no one was killed there."

I should be glad. Yet, if Albert did exist, he probably commanded a whole army of himselves, using high-cla.s.s grays and ebonies to track down the villain who destroyed my ... our ... his garden. Why, in that case, should he welcome back a stray green who refused to mow the lawn?

Good question -- and moot if I couldn't find him! Where was was Albert when the missile struck? And where was he Albert when the missile struck? And where was he now now?

Beta tossed a theory at me, turning his head to be heard over the engines. "See what some hobbyist ditectives found in Tuesday's streetcam data." His domed head gestured to a display globe showing the Sycamore Avenue house, before it was destroyed. Leaning my chin on Beta's pilot seat, I watched the garage door open in soft pre-twilight. The Volvo crept out.

"He left! Then why did everybody think he was still there when the missile ... Oh, I see."

As the car turned down Sycamore, one camera got a fine view of the driver. It was an Albert Morris gray gray. Bald and glossy -- the perfect golem. By implication, realAl must still be in the house.

Beta knew better. "Appearances mean nothing. Your archie is nearly as good at disguises as I am." Strong praise from a master of deception. "But then where ... ? I spent lavishly for a top freelance voyeur. She tracked the car from camview to camview along the Skyway Highway, to this camera-blank road." ditBeta waved past the windshield at a slender desert lane below. Moonlight painted wan, lonely tones -- a different world than the ditto-clogged city, or suburbs where comfortably unemployed realfolk distract themselves by pursuing a million hobbies. Below, nature reigned ... subject to advice and consent from the Department of Environments.

"What could Albert be up to, coming out this way?" I wondered aloud. Our memories were the same Tuesday noon. Something must have happened since.

"You have no idea?"

"Well ... after I was made, Ritu Maharal phoned with news that her father was killed in an auto wreck. My next move would've been to study the crash site."

"Let's see." Beta twiddled chords on a controller. Images rippled, zooming to a rocky desolation, underneath a highway viaduct. Police and rescue cruisers surrounded a ruin of twisted metal. "You're right," Beta announced. "It's not far from here, and yet ... odd. Albert drove some distance past past the crash site; we're already fifty klicks south." the crash site; we're already fifty klicks south."

"What could be south, except ... "

Abruptly I knew. The battle range. He was heading to see Clara. The battle range. He was heading to see Clara.

Beta asked. "Did you say something?"

"Nothing."

Albert's love life wasn't any of this character's business. Anyway, I had seen Clara today, rummaging through the ruins. So they must not have connected, after all. Something was fishy, all right.

After flying in silence for a while, I asked Beta for a chador. He took a compact model from the glove compartment and pa.s.sed it back. Wriggling in the cramped s.p.a.ce, I slipped the holo-luminescent folds over my head and spent a while rapid-reciting a report, summarizing what happened since the last time I filed, not caring if Beta listened in. He already knew all about events that took place after Palloid and I left the Ephemerals Temple.

"Who're you sending the report to?" he asked casually when I removed the chador. A keypad glowed nearby, ready for any net address. The in-box of the chief of police. The whistle-blowers page of the Times. Times. Or the fan/junkmail queue of one of those golem astronauts who were on t.i.tan right now, taking turns exploring for a day or two, then dissolving to save on food and fuel till the next replacement came out of storage. Or the fan/junkmail queue of one of those golem astronauts who were on t.i.tan right now, taking turns exploring for a day or two, then dissolving to save on food and fuel till the next replacement came out of storage.

I asked myself the same question. If I send an encrypted file to Albert's cache, there's no guarantee Beta won't tag it with a parasite-follower. If I send an encrypted file to Albert's cache, there's no guarantee Beta won't tag it with a parasite-follower.

Clara, then? What about Pal?

a.s.suming the Waxers hadn't hurt my friend amid all that mayhem, he'd be in a h.e.l.luva state -- either steaming mad over the loss of Palloid's memories or else in a stupor if they made him take a forget-sniff. Either way, Pal didn't know how to be discreet.

Then I thought of someone fitting ... with the added virtue that it'd gall Beta. "Inspector Blane of the Labor Subcontractors a.s.sociation," I told the transmitter unit, with an eye to my companion's reaction. Beta merely smiled and fussed over the controls while my report went out.

"Include a copy of the film," he suggested. "Those pictures Irene took."

"They implicate you -- "

"In Cla.s.s D industrial espionage. A trifling civil matter. But the sabotage attempt at UK was serious! Realfolk might have been endangered. Those pictures prove Kaolin -- "

"We don't know know it was him. Why sabotage his own factory?" it was him. Why sabotage his own factory?"

"For insurance? An excuse to write off capital equipment? He strove hard to blame all his enemies -- Gadarene, Wammaker, Lum, and me."

I'd been thinking about Kaolin. What's in the Research Division that he might want to destroy? A program he couldn't justify shutting down ... unless it were ruined by some act beyond his control? What's in the Research Division that he might want to destroy? A program he couldn't justify shutting down ... unless it were ruined by some act beyond his control?

Or one he didn't want to share?

I knew firsthand of one breakthrough -- golem-rejuvenation -- that gave me this extra, eventful day. Suppose I kept loyal to Aeneas for that, bringing him him the film. Would my reward me be another extension? I guess it's to my credit that I never felt tempted. The habit of a lifetime ... thinking yourself expendable when you're in clay. the film. Would my reward me be another extension? I guess it's to my credit that I never felt tempted. The habit of a lifetime ... thinking yourself expendable when you're in clay.

Still, why suppress the new replenishment technology? To keep people buying lots of ditto blanks?

Not necessarily. Kilns and freezers and imprinters were the big-ticket items, and sales had tapered off. There was also talk of "conservation" -- how we may deplete the best golem-quality clay beds in a generation or two. What could be more profitable than for UK to act responsibly ... and make billions ... by manufacturing and selling replenishers? Anyway, suppose he did wipe out every ditto in the Research Division. Word of the breakthrough would leak anyway, in a matter of months.

He must must have had a reason, though. One I hadn't fathomed yet. have had a reason, though. One I hadn't fathomed yet.

"The film could exonerate me -- and you," Beta urged. "I have a scanner here. Just feed it in and send." He indicated a slot in the control panel.

"No," I said, feeling wary. "Not yet."

"But in seconds Blane could have a copy and -- "

"Later." I felt another of those weird headaches coming on -- brief but intensely disorienting, accompanied by queasy, claustrophobic feelings, as if I weren't here at all, but someplace cramped, confining. Probably a side effect of my overextended existence. "Are we getting close?"

"The Volvo's last trace was about there." Beta pointed to a curvy stretch of desert road. "Then no further sightings. It never showed up where the next camview covers the highway. I've been circling, looking for signs, but Albert disconnected his car-transponder, naughty boy. And there'd be no pellet in his brow if he was real. I'm at a loss."

"Unless -- "

"Yeah?"

" -- he set forth with a spare in the trunk."

"A spare?" Beta ruminated. "Even if it wasn't baked yet, the pellet pellet would respond if we broadcast a close enough coding. Great. Let me just take a reading of would respond if we broadcast a close enough coding. Great. Let me just take a reading of your your pellet for comparison ... " pellet for comparison ... "

Reaching around, Beta pushed a portable scanner. The reasoning -- if Albert took a spare, it could be from the same factory batch as me. Similar codes, unless he scrambled them. And he was often too lazy to bother.

"Good idea." But I warded off the scanner. "Just don't play games. You already read my code. I felt it when I hopped aboard."

Beta offered his usual grin. "Fair enough. A little paranoia suits you, Morris."

I'm not Morris, I thought. But the protest, which seemed proud on Tuesday, felt weary now. I thought. But the protest, which seemed proud on Tuesday, felt weary now.

"Let's see if we can find that ditto spare," the pilot murmured, turning back to his instruments. The skycycle leaped powerfully at his bidding.

It must pay to be a copyright pirate. Even after Beta's enemy wreckedhis bootlegging empire, he still has enough loot stashed away for an emergency backup copy to ride in style emergency backup copy to ride in style.

"Got it," Beta said minutes later. "The resonance is ... d.a.m.n! The car headed east, into the badlands. Why would Albert drive cross-country in a Volvo?"