Kiln People Part 44

I always dismissed the notion as metaphysical nonsense, just another version of the age-old romantic-transcendentalist fantasy -- like stone circles, UFO hallucinations, and "singularity" mirages were to other generations who kept yearning for a way to rise above this gritty plain. For a doorway to some realm beyond.

Only now it seems that one of the founders of this era, the legendary Professor Maharal, found a way ... though something about his method drove him mad with fear.

Is that why ditYosil needs the soul of Albert Morris, to use as raw material? Because nothing about golemtech frightens me? Self-duplication always felt natural to Albert, like picking something comfortable to wear from the closet. h.e.l.l, I'm not even bothered much anymore by all the pain pain inflicted by this brutal machinery -- some clever modification of the standard tetragramatron. inflicted by this brutal machinery -- some clever modification of the standard tetragramatron. Creative Creative machinery that will soon nudge a zillion overlapping copies of my Standing Wave to unite in perfect unison, as light rays do in a laser, joining as collusive bosons rather than independent/bickering fermions ... machinery that will soon nudge a zillion overlapping copies of my Standing Wave to unite in perfect unison, as light rays do in a laser, joining as collusive bosons rather than independent/bickering fermions ...

Whatever that means. I can already feel the process working. In fact, there's a strong temptation to stop thinking and just let go ... wallow in the simplicity ... in the glorious me me-ness of it all. Memory and reason feel like impediments, sullying the purity of a Standing Wave that multiplies on and on, filling an ever-expanding vessel.

I, amphorum ... ...

Fortunately, there come respites when fierce, machine-driven energies aren't pummeling and stretching me/us according to plan, when cogent thought remains possible ... even enhanced with a peculiar kind of focus. For example, right now I can perceive ditYosil bustling about nearby, sensing his presence in ways that go beyond mere sound or vision. The intensity of his desire. His growing excitement and confidence as a lifelong goal draws near.

Above all, I feel ditYosil's burning concentration, enhanced by the genius that so often accompanies Smersh-Foxleitner syndrome ... a concentration so fixed, he can ignore a rain of dust that falls from the cave's ceiling each time the stone walls shudder from some distant, booming explosion, as war-golems claw their way closer, ever closer to this buried lair.

They're still too far away for me to decipher much about their soul-harmonies. Could they even be me? It's tempting to imagine realAlbert, accompanied by an army of himselves ... and maybe a whole bunch of Pal's wonderful/nasty specialty dittos ... fighting their way up that tunnel, coming to the rescue.

But no. I forgot. I'm dead. dead. ditYosil says he killed me. The real, organic Albert Morris had to die, so he wouldn't "anchor" my quantum-soul observer state to the material world -- whatever that means. ditYosil says he killed me. The real, organic Albert Morris had to die, so he wouldn't "anchor" my quantum-soul observer state to the material world -- whatever that means.

Still puttering and preparing, Maharal's ghost fine-tunes a large pendulum that sways slowly back and forth between my red and gray cranium-mirrors, raising soul-ripples with each pa.s.sage. Ripples that thrum thrum to the lowest sound you ever heard -- like the voice heard by Moses on Sinai ... to the lowest sound you ever heard -- like the voice heard by Moses on Sinai ...

I lack the proper technical vocabulary, but it's easy to imagine what'll happen when ditYosil steps aboard that rocking platform. Those ripples will take over take over. He plans to use my purified-amplified presence as a carrier wave, to boost his own essence higher. I'm to be spent, spent, the same way that an expendable rocket is splurged, drained, and discarded in order to hurl an expensive probe toward the black abyss of s.p.a.ce. Only the cargo I'm a.s.signed to carry will be Maharal's soul-pattern ... launching it toward something like G.o.dhood. the same way that an expendable rocket is splurged, drained, and discarded in order to hurl an expensive probe toward the black abyss of s.p.a.ce. Only the cargo I'm a.s.signed to carry will be Maharal's soul-pattern ... launching it toward something like G.o.dhood.

Everything makes sense, in a perverse way, except for one puzzling thing.

Wasn't I supposed to be losing my sense of ident.i.ty by now? ditYosil predicted that my ego would be overwhelmed by the sheer ecstasy of amplification, removing all of Albert Morris's personal hang-ups and desires, leaving just Albert's talent for duplication, distilled, expanded, exponentiated. The purest of all booster rockets.

Is that happening? Ego Reduction? Ego Reduction? It ... doesn't feel that way. Yes, I can sense the glazier machinery trying to achieve that. But my footing isn't loose. Albert's memories feel intact! It ... doesn't feel that way. Yes, I can sense the glazier machinery trying to achieve that. But my footing isn't loose. Albert's memories feel intact!

Moreover, what about all these echoes that i/we keep picking up? Musically resonant echoes that feel like they come from outside outside? Yosil never mentioned anything about that ... and I don't plan on bringing it up.

For one thing, he's dismissed me as a cipher, a beast of burden, talented at copying but unworthy of respect.

But there's another reason.

I ... we ... are ... am starting to enjoy this.

48.

Mortar Enemies ... as Tuesday's frankie takes a turn as baked goods ...

They say that golemtech arrived in j.a.pan with much less upheaval than in the West, almost as if they expected it. The j.a.panese had no trouble with the idea of duplicating souls, in much the same way that Americans embraced the Internet, seeing it as a fundamental expression of their national will to talk. talk. According to legend, all you had to do was give something eyes -- a boat, a house, a robot, or even the fluffy According to legend, all you had to do was give something eyes -- a boat, a house, a robot, or even the fluffy AnpanMan AnpanMan who hawked pastry in cute TV commercials. who hawked pastry in cute TV commercials.

When it came to investing an object with soul, eyes mattered above all.

I thought about that while clinging to the bottom of Beta's skycycle, sheltering my face from a terrible wind that kept alternating between fire and ice. Protect the eyes Protect the eyes, I told myself, desperately clutching a pair of slim handholds while my feet pressed hard against the landing skids. Protect the eyes and brain. And never regret that you chose this way to die. Protect the eyes and brain. And never regret that you chose this way to die.

During level flight my chief problem was wind chill, sucking warmth out of every exposed catalysis cell. But that was a picnic compared to the agony whenever the Harley banked or turned. Without warning, one or another of the thrust nozzles would swivel, grazing me with jets of collimated flame. All I could do then was swing my head to the other side of the narrow fuselage and try to squirm out of the way, reminding myself over and over why I had put myself in this fix ... because it seemed like a pretty good idea at the time.

The alternative -- to stay behind at the wrecked Volvo and make some kind of signal, then wait around for help -- might have made sense if I were real, without a ticking expiration clock that could lapse any time in the next hour or so. But my logic had to be ditto logic. When Beta took off, I felt just one imperative more urgent than what little remained of my life.

Don't lose the scent.

I now realized Beta was key to understanding all that had happened during this bizarre week, starting from the moment I slinked into the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Teller Building to uncover his pirate copying facility, with its stolen Wammaker template. That operation had already been hijacked by some enemy, presumably Aeneas Kaolin. Or so Beta claimed; Aeneas told a different story, portraying himself as the victim of perverted conspiracies. Then there were the dark, paranoid musings that Yosil Maharal had muttered on Tuesday morning, after he was already dead.

Who told the truth? All I knew for certain was that three brilliant and unscrupulous men -- all of them much smarter than poor Albert Morris -- were engaged in some kind of desperate, secretive, triangular struggle. And the secretive part was what impressed me most.

Nowadays, it takes power, money, and genuine cleverness to keep anything out of the public glare -- a scrutinizing glare that was supposed to have banished all those awful, dark, twentieth-century cliches, like conniving moguls, mad scientists, and elite master criminals. Yet here were all three of those archetypes, battling each other while colluding to keep their conflict hidden from media, government, and the public. No wonder poor Albert was out of his league!

No wonder I had no choice but to follow the trail, whatever the cost. As Beta's skycycle sped through the night, just forty meters or so above the desert floor, I knew that one cost was going to be this body of mine, which kept getting baked each time those narrow torch-jets shifted to adjust course. Especially the portion of me that stuck out the most, my hapless clay a.s.s. I could feel colloidal/pseudo-organic const.i.tuents react to the heat by fizzing and popping, sometimes loud enough to hear above the wind's tumult, gradually transforming supple lifeclay to the hard consistency of porcelain dinnerware.

Let me add, as a cheap utility greenie with an unbuffered Standing Wave, that it also hurt like h.e.l.l! So much for the advantages of soulistic verisimilitude. I tried to find distraction by imagining our destination -- presumably the goal that realAlbert and Ritu Maharal had been heading toward when the Volvo got ambushed. Some cryptic desert hideaway, where her father lurked during the weeks he went missing from Universal Kilns? Beta apparently knew where to go -- which made me wonder.

He's trying to follow Ritu. But why, if not to reveal Yosil's hiding place? What other use could Beta have for her?

I tried to concentrate, but it's hard to do when your b.u.t.t keeps getting singed every minute or two by sonocollimated heat. I found myself returning over and over to the image of poor little Palloid, my ferret-ditto companion, who got smashed before unhappy Pal could harvest memories of our long day together. That was my sole chance to be remembered, That was my sole chance to be remembered, I thought glumly. I thought glumly. At this rate, all that'll be left of me is a pile of shattered statuary when Beta lands. At this rate, all that'll be left of me is a pile of shattered statuary when Beta lands.

For solace, I tried conjuring up an image of Clara's face -- but that only increased the pain. Her war must be approaching its big climax by now, Her war must be approaching its big climax by now, I thought, picturing how close we were to the Jesse Helms Combat Range. Beta would turn aside before then, of course. Still, I wondered about the coincidence ... and hoped that Clara wouldn't get in too much trouble for going AWOL when Albert's house was destroyed. We had a.s.signed each other survivor benefits, so maybe the army would understand. I thought, picturing how close we were to the Jesse Helms Combat Range. Beta would turn aside before then, of course. Still, I wondered about the coincidence ... and hoped that Clara wouldn't get in too much trouble for going AWOL when Albert's house was destroyed. We had a.s.signed each other survivor benefits, so maybe the army would understand.

If Albert truly is still alive, they may still have a chance to be happy together ... ...

Anyway, something else was happening as the Harley sped through a night where even the stars seemed out of joint. My soul-wave kept doing unsettling things, jittering wildly ... up-down, in-out ... and through some of those weird directions that n.o.body has ever named properly -- self-contained dimensions of spirit that Leow and others only began mapping a generation ago, exploring the newest terra incognita terra incognita or final frontier. At first, the disturbances were almost too brief to notice. But those periodic tumults grew progressively stronger as the awful flight went on. Spikes of egotistical self-importance alternated with troughs of utter abnegation when I felt less than dust grain. Later, the effect was one of brief but intensely focused or final frontier. At first, the disturbances were almost too brief to notice. But those periodic tumults grew progressively stronger as the awful flight went on. Spikes of egotistical self-importance alternated with troughs of utter abnegation when I felt less than dust grain. Later, the effect was one of brief but intensely focused awe. awe. When it pa.s.sed, I wondered -- When it pa.s.sed, I wondered -- What next? Zen-like detachment?

Feelings of unity with the universe?

Or will I hear the booming voice of G.o.d?

Every culture has had what William James called "varieties of religious experience." They bloom whenever a person's Standing Wave plucks certain chords in the parietal nexus, Broca's area, or the spiritual-paraphrase juncture of the right temporal lobe. Of course, you can get similar sensations in clay -- a soul is a soul -- but the feelings are almost never as compelling as in trueflesh.

Or unless you get replenished and given one more whole day of life? Could this this be why Aeneas Kaolin sabotaged his own Research Division? Because the new trick of extending ditto endurance had a side effect? Might it be why Aeneas Kaolin sabotaged his own Research Division? Because the new trick of extending ditto endurance had a side effect? Might it convert convert golemfolk, eventually sparking a holy revival among billions of artificial men? What if dittos stopped going home for inloading each night, abandoning their archies to seek their own, separate highway to redemption? golemfolk, eventually sparking a holy revival among billions of artificial men? What if dittos stopped going home for inloading each night, abandoning their archies to seek their own, separate highway to redemption?

What a bizarre thought! Perhaps it was provoked by my visits to the affably crackpot Ephemerals. Or else by the blazing agony of being half-roasted alive! Maybe.

Still, I couldn't shake a growing impression that something or someone accompanied me during that tormented ride across a fractured sky, keeping pace nearby or within, between the fiery h.e.l.l of my lower body and my wind-chilled face. Now and then, a half-heard echo seemed to urge me to hang in there hang in there ... ...

The bl.u.s.tering gale abated a little, letting me glimpse a rough terrain of plateaus and deep ravines, steeply shadowed by a setting moon. The Harley began losing alt.i.tude, its wan beams lending the fractal landscape a kind of jagged beauty. Hollows loomed upward like gaping maws, eager to swallow me whole.

Maneuvering jets roared, swiveling to vertical, surrounding me in a cage of throbbing flame. I had to release one grip in order to throw an arm over my eyes. That left just two feet and a hand pressed against the skid supports, bearing my entire weight while those fingers and toes gradually cooked, hardening into crispy things.

As for the noise, it grew tolerable soon ... I guess because I had nothing to hear with anymore. Hold on, Hold on, an internal voice said, probably some tenacious part of Albert Morris that never learned to quit. I'll give him credit for that much, old Albert. Tenacious b.a.s.t.a.r.d. an internal voice said, probably some tenacious part of Albert Morris that never learned to quit. I'll give him credit for that much, old Albert. Tenacious b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Hold on just a little while -- Shivering reverberations rattled me like a mud doll. Some remote bits snapped! My stubborn grip failed at last and I fell ...

(Time to rejoin the Earth already?) ... only the plummet was much shorter than expected. About half a meter or thereabouts. I barely felt a jolt as my seared backside hit the rocky desert floor.

Engines sputtered to a stop. Heat and ruction faded. Dimly, I knew -- we've landed. we've landed.

Still, it took several tries before I managed to command an arm to move, uncovering my last undamaged sense organs, and at first all I could see were clouds of agitated dust -- then dim outlines of one landing skid. It took hard work to turn my head and look the other way. My neck seemed to be coated with a hard crust, something that resisted movement, cracking and giving way grudgingly, after strenuous effort.

Ah, there he is ... ...

I spied a pair of legs turning to step away from the skycycle. There was no mistaking the spiral pattern motif covering the ditto's entire body. Ascending a dirt path, bordered by pale stone, Beta strode with a confident swagger.

I once moved like that. Yesterday, when I was young.

Now, broiled, abraded, and near expiration, I felt lucky to drag myself with one arm and half of another, grateful that the skycycle had plenty of ground clearance.

Once fully clear of the hot fuselage, I struggled to sit up and a.s.sess the damage.

That is, I tried tried to sit up. A few pseudomuscles responded down there, but they failed to make anything bend properly. With my good hand I reached down to tap along my hard-glazed back and b.u.t.tocks. I clanked. to sit up. A few pseudomuscles responded down there, but they failed to make anything bend properly. With my good hand I reached down to tap along my hard-glazed back and b.u.t.tocks. I clanked.

Well, well. It always seemed a quixotic-doomed gesture to leap through flaming jets and grab the departing skycycle. Yet here I was! Not exactly kicking, but still in motion. Still in the game. Sort of.

Beta had pa.s.sed out of sight, vanishing among the varied shades of blackness. But now at least I could dimly make out his goal -- a low, boxy outline nestled in the flank of an imposing desert mesa. Under starlight, it seemed little more than a modest, one-story structure. Perhaps a vacation cabin, or a long-abandoned shack.

Resting next to the slowly cooling Harley, I felt one more of those periodic otherness otherness waves swarm by again. Only now, instead of preaching at me to persevere, or tantalizing with hints of infinity, the strange half-presence seemed more curious ... questioning ... as if it wondered, wordlessly, what business I had there. waves swarm by again. Only now, instead of preaching at me to persevere, or tantalizing with hints of infinity, the strange half-presence seemed more curious ... questioning ... as if it wondered, wordlessly, what business I had there.

Beats me, I thought, answering the vague feeling. I thought, answering the vague feeling. When I figure that one out, you'll be the first to know. When I figure that one out, you'll be the first to know.

49.

Ditbulls at the Gate ... realAlbert is caught between rox and a hard place ...

It was a rather tight pickle that Ritu and I found ourselves in, squeezed by two squadrons of battle-golems who were marching in the same direction. The first armed contingent, just ahead, battled their way forward against stiff resistance while a second band of ditto-warrior reinforcements drew up behind, ready to take over when the first bunch were depleted. Ritu and I had to step along carefully in order to stay between the two advancing groups, forging ahead through that awful, dank tunnel. Only a few dim glowbulbs, tacked onto bare stone walls, kept us from stumbling in the dark.

"Well, there's one thing we can find satisfying," I quipped, trying to lift my companion's spirits. "At least our destination is near."

Ritu didn't seem amused by the irony, or cheered that we were finally approaching the goal we set out to visit Tuesday evening -- the mountain villa where she spent weeks as a child, vacationing with her father. The trip had taken much longer than promised, by a route more circuitous and traumatic than either of us expected.

I kept searching for an alcove or crevice, any refuge to avoid being herded toward the harsh echoes of fighting -- detonations and clanging ricochets -- as the first squadron of battle-golems advanced against bitter resistance. But though Yosil Maharal's secret access shaft twisted enough to take advantage of softer layers in the rock, it never offered a safe place to duck and hide.

Lacking that, I'd give anything for a simple phone! I kept trying to use my implant, dialing for Base Security. But there weren't any public links within line of sight and the tiny transceiver in my skull couldn't transmit through stone. We were probably outside the boundaries of the Military Enclave by now, traversing deep under Urraca Mesa.

Serves you right, I thought. I thought. You could have called for help ages ago. But no, you had to play go-it-alone sleuth. Smart guy. You could have called for help ages ago. But no, you had to play go-it-alone sleuth. Smart guy.

Ritu wasn't much help offering alternatives. Still, I tried to keep up one side of a conversation, talking to her in a low voice as we hurried along.

"What puzzles me is how Beta penetrated the Defense Zone without someone like Chen to escort him inside. And how did he even know we were here?"

Ritu seemed unsteady, perched halfway between listlessness and tears after her recent ruthless treatment. It made me hesitate before asking, "Do you have any idea what Beta wanted you for?"

I saw conflict in her eyes -- a wish to confide, battling against a habitual terror of something that must never be said aloud. When she finally spoke, the words came haltingly and tinged with bitterness.

"What does Beta want me for? Is that your question, Albert? What's the ultimate thing that any male animal wants a female for?"

Her question made me blink. The answer might have seemed obvious a century ago, but s.e.x just isn't the all-transfixing force that it was in Grandpa's day. How could it be? That urge is no harder to satisfy now than any other inherited Stone Age hunger, like the yearning for salt or fatty snack foods.

So, if not s.e.x, what else could she be talking about? "Ritu, we don't have time for riddles."

Even in the dark, I saw symptoms of a carefully b.u.t.tressed facade collapsing. The corners of her mouth moved -- halfway between a tremor and a sardonic smile. Ritu wanted to divulge, but had to do it on her own terms, preserving a sliver of pride. A measure of distance and ... yes ... that old superiority.

"Albert, do you know what happens inside a chrysalis?"

"A chrys ... you mean a coc.o.o.n coc.o.o.n? Like when a caterpillar -- "

" -- turns into a b.u.t.terfly. People envision a simple transformation: the caterpillar's legs turn into the b.u.t.terfly's legs, for instance. Seems logical, no? That the caterpillar's head and brain would serve the b.u.t.terfly in much the same way? Continuity of memory and being. Metamorphosis was seen as a cosmetic change of outer tools and coverings, while the ent.i.ty within -- "

"Ritu, what does any of this have to do with Beta?" I honestly couldn't see a connection. The infamous ditnapper made his fortune offering cheap copies of highly coveted -- and copyrighted -- personalities like Gineen Wammaker. Ritu Maharal certainly had her own quirks, as unique as the maestra's. But who would pay pay for bootleg copies of an administrator at Universal Kilns? What profit could Beta see in it? for bootleg copies of an administrator at Universal Kilns? What profit could Beta see in it?

Ritu ignored my interruption.

"People think the caterpillar changes into into a b.u.t.terfly, but that doesn't happen! After spinning a chrysalis around itself, the caterpillar dissolves! The whole creature melts into nutrient soup, serving only to nourish a tiny embryo that feeds and grows into something else. Something altogether different!" a b.u.t.terfly, but that doesn't happen! After spinning a chrysalis around itself, the caterpillar dissolves! The whole creature melts into nutrient soup, serving only to nourish a tiny embryo that feeds and grows into something else. Something altogether different!"

I glanced back nervously, weighing the distance of marching footsteps. "Ritu, I don't get what you're -- "

"Caterpillar and b.u.t.terfly share a lineage of chromosomes, Albert. But their genomes are separate, coexisting in parallel. They need each other the same way that a man needs a woman ... to reproduce. reproduce. Other than that -- " Other than that -- "

Ritu stopped walking because I I had stopped, halting suddenly, my feet unable to move as I stared without blinking. Her revelation burst in my brain at last, just like a bomb. had stopped, halting suddenly, my feet unable to move as I stared without blinking. Her revelation burst in my brain at last, just like a bomb.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm usually calm about new ideas. In fact, I've always tried to be a skeptic, especially when I'm walking around in realflesh. An archie-debunker, you might say. But right then, her words and their implications hurt hurt so much that I wanted desperately to push them away, and all understanding with them. so much that I wanted desperately to push them away, and all understanding with them.

"Ritu, you ... can't be saying ... "

" ... that they're paired creatures. Caterpillar and b.u.t.terfly need each other, yet have in common no desires or values. No loves."

I could hear the second contingent of war-golems coming up from behind, even more intimidating now that I had some inkling of their inner nature. Still, I couldn't move without asking one more question. I met Ritu's eyes. In the dimness, everything was gray.

"Which are you?" I asked.

She laughed, a bitter sound that bounced harshly off the tunnel walls.

"Oh, I'm the b.u.t.terfly, Albert! Can't you tell? I'm the one who gets to flutter in the sunlight, reproducing in blithe and blissful ignorance.

"That is, I used to be. Till last month, when I started to realize what was going on."

My mouth felt dry as I followed up. "And Beta?"

The strain showed in her short, barked laugh. Ritu's head jerked toward the sound of marching feet.