Kiln People Part 52

Somebody might already be there.

Like most of the audible meaning-squawks that are used by organic men, "already" comes laden with implications. Take past and present tense, for example -- narrative deceits that help perpetuate a myth of linear time.

Not for you, you, though. You who were/was/am/are/will be Albert. Your story is complex, looped, and fractally nested. It calls for a style that's flexible, confident, though. You who were/was/am/are/will be Albert. Your story is complex, looped, and fractally nested. It calls for a style that's flexible, confident, predictive. predictive.

So here, let me tell you what I foresee.

Before doing anything else, you will relinquish fear.

There. Wasn't that easy?

Fear is marvelously useful to biological beings. You won't miss it.

Next, you will realize that your life -- such as it was -- has come to an end.

Surely you didn't expect to survive all these experiences unscathed? No anch.o.r.ed mind can gaze upon the soulscape and remain unchanged.

Forget those symptoms that you once thought to be caused by plague -- by some war virus. Soon you'll realize there is nothing physically wrong with the clever animal that carried you around so faithfully, for so long. The sensations you mistook for illness will be recognized as natural separation pangs.

The body will live. Its embedded instincts won't even complain very hard when you move on.

Anyway, we have ch.o.r.es to do! Such as learning about the nature of time.

You'll notice that it seems frozen around us. Even Yosil's garish pendulum grinds to a halt, suspended in mid-slice, while the mad ditto's mouth gapes in an angry scream. This is the ortho-moment. The now of palpable reality. The narrow moving slit in which organic beings may move and act and perceive.

Great thinkers always knew that time must be a dimension, with inherent potential for travel, like any other. But living organisms can't abide a paradox, Albert. Incongruities of cause-and-effect turn out to be toxic. How could the creative genius of evolution work its slow miracle -- gradually stirring raw chemicals into soul-carrying beings soul-carrying beings -- without enormous numbers of trials and outcomes? The "real" world needs consistency and countless failures in order for natural selection to do its job, drawing complexity out of chaos. -- without enormous numbers of trials and outcomes? The "real" world needs consistency and countless failures in order for natural selection to do its job, drawing complexity out of chaos.

It is the answer to the Riddle of Pain.

So we mustn't stretch time's fabric very much, Albert! Just a tweak, here and there, as we spiral back and forth, helping to create ourselves.

Confused? You won't be when we take our first small step back ... almost a week ... to last Monday evening.

No, don't try to navigate in normal terms. Follow affinities instead.

There! Pursue that trace of smugness, mixed with four parts stubbornness, plus some excess self-reliance and a dash of the romantic gambler. Track it and you'll find the green ditto green ditto that you were that night, wounded and reckless as he crossed Odeon Square, hara.s.sed by bored punks and chased by Beta's angry yellows, pelting you with stones. that you were that night, wounded and reckless as he crossed Odeon Square, hara.s.sed by bored punks and chased by Beta's angry yellows, pelting you with stones.

Don't try to remember. Antic.i.p.ate! It's much easier on this plane.

Soon you'll grasp necessity. The green must survive, The green must survive, but on its own. but on its own.

Only the slightest interference will do. Enough to collapse the probabilities a bit. Something minor, easily dismissed.

Yes, go ahead. Experiment. Soon, at a crucial moment, you'll decide to reach out and nudge the mind of that waiter waiter over there, serving dinner in a quayside restaurant, whose repeated clumsiness will offer distraction at a crucial moment ... over there, serving dinner in a quayside restaurant, whose repeated clumsiness will offer distraction at a crucial moment ...

... but carefully! For even a nudge spreads ripples, as you'll see. Something about the way those dishes go flying -- Later it will bother one of your suspicious selves. He'll worry over it, like a sore tooth. As I said, clever animals get jittery around a paradox.

Yosil Maharal, amid his brilliance and his flaws, imagined that the raw material of the soulscape would be like simple clay for him to mold, to meddle with however he liked. But you will see -- it's far more subtle than poor Yosil ever imagined.

You'll find our next stop even stranger, skipping forward one day to a patch of desert road, far outside of town, as someone hefts a bulbous weapon preparing to ambush the occupants of an approaching car. Yes, the silvery ditto bears a soul-imprint of Aeneas Kaolin. Also note the biting stench of dread. Everything isn't going to his liking.

But don't probe too deeply! Never mind about such mundane mysteries as who or why or what or where. Forget motives and crimes. Leave the real-world detective work for your successor to solve.

That's no longer any of your concern.

Here's what I predict you'll choose to do. You'll watch as the ambush unfolds.

Notice and appreciate the feral-mammalian gracefulness of real Albert Morris as he swerves the automobile, trying to avoid collision ... then guns the accelerator when he sees the platinum take aim ... and fire! Ah, it all happened days ago in linear time, yet the urgency feels so fresh.

Can you antic.i.p.ate remembering what to do next?

Soon, you'll find there's no one conscious down there, under the desert stars. Albert and Ritu, stunned inside the Volvo's cab, won't notice as you take over a small fragment of ditKaolin, hanging on the car's window. You'll use use the remnant, reaching inside, taking the vehicle's tiller ... the remnant, reaching inside, taking the vehicle's tiller ...

... and yes, guide it to a narrow ravine, hidden from all those civilized eyes out there that might feel pity or concern, bringing rescue much too soon.

You're about to be distracted.

Some information still pours into you through realAlbert's organic eyes and brain, pinning your concern back in the frozen ortho-moment of Friday morning in the underground lab. You will wonder, for instance, what is happening to Yosil Maharal's great invention? Which personality is winning control? Will the glazier beam shoot forth as predicted, soaring above both the real and spiritual planes?

You'll ask about the missiles -- did realAlbert succeed in stopping them with his final sabotage? Will the people of the city be saved? Or will backup systems kick in, sending death bullets flying after all?

There is satisfaction in realAlbert's feral heart, having swung that metal chair a final time, smashing the computer controller to sparking debris. Yet, through a corner of his eye, he sees both slender Ritu and a much larger Beta rushing toward him. For once, the two seem united in purpose. Isn't it amazing how siblings can overcome rivalry when faced with threats and opportunities to the family at large?

Time jutters forward a few notches before sticking again. Those quick seconds bring the pair closer. A few more such jumps and they will be upon poor Albert.

Only now, far across the room, Al's eye detects another another figure entering. This golem wears a beige spiral dye job, garishly corks.c.r.e.w.i.n.g from the top of its head all the way down. Its expression, surveying the vast chamber filled with expensive equipment, is one of towering anger! figure entering. This golem wears a beige spiral dye job, garishly corks.c.r.e.w.i.n.g from the top of its head all the way down. Its expression, surveying the vast chamber filled with expensive equipment, is one of towering anger!

At first you will imagine that it's yet another version of Beta. Then you'll realize that looks are deceiving.

Why?

Why is all of this happening? What is the context for all of this meddling?

That will be your question soon. And I'll answer, to the extent possible, after a few more errands.

First we shall move to coordinates a little closer in s.p.a.cetime. Make it about half a day ago ...

There! Albert Morris is alone in the great underground defense armory, sifting through computer records of the military base, tracking the secret thefts and treacheries of Yosil Maharal. Not far away stand columns of blank-eyed soldiers -- sealed-to-preserve-freshness -- ready to bake at a moment's notice, whenever their country needs them. Or when someone clever enough comes along to hijack them.

Shall we help ourselves? You will need just one.

First, look around for Ritu. An earlier version of that wounded-confused soul. You'll detect her soon, filled with self-loathing as she surrenders to an inner craving beyond her control, laying her shaved head between the poles of a high-capacity tetragramatron while autokilns warm up nearby, preparing several dozen giant golems built for war.

Come, while she's still fighting the compulsion, still showing some spirited resistance to that inner pressure. Beta never had to overcome such active opposition before! That means the imprint he makes upon the very first copy will be weak. You'll slip between the cracks and take over take over that one, pushing Beta aside. Yes, the ditto may be damaged. But it will be good enough -- yours to command -- first out of the oven. that one, pushing Beta aside. Yes, the ditto may be damaged. But it will be good enough -- yours to command -- first out of the oven.

Ready? Have you done it? Then bring along your warrior and we'll go find Albert.

What's that? Are we going to rescue him rescue him?

No, I don't expect Albert will call this much of a rescue. Not when he still winds up herded into that awful tunnel. And yet, time loops can be surprising. Even after an infinite number of recursions, they are never exactly the same. Maybe this one will amaze us.

No matter.

I'm sure that when the critical moment comes you will know what to do.

67.

... and Roll ... Gumby hears a pitter-patter ...

As journeys go, this one was even worse than that miserable slog along the river bottom, back on Monday night. I didn't so much crawl downstairs as tumble most of the way.

What else could I do, with just an arm, a battered head, and a torso that kept dropping off bits with each b.u.mp or hard landing? I had no sense of smell, of course. (I could barely even remember the concept.) But oily vapors oozing off this body were easy to see. One reason for haste was to stay ahead of those fumes, which tend to accelerate final decay -- it's why dissolution usually happens all at once, swiftly and mercifully.

No such luck for me. Too obdurate to give up, I guess. How strange that frankie mutation made me more like Albert than even he was!

Finally, and rather to my surprise, I ran out of stairs, arriving at the same landing where I chose the least traveled of three forks in the road. Was that half an hour ago? I didn't regret the decision to climb those dark steps. Stopping the missile launcher, even temporarily, was the greatest achievement of my bargain-bas.e.m.e.nt life. Only now I faced another trio of options.

Back to the cave entrance and the vacation cabin, where maybe a working telephone might be found amid the debris? to the cave entrance and the vacation cabin, where maybe a working telephone might be found amid the debris?

Forward, toward Maharal's inner sanctum? That's where the pilot of the Harley scooter went -- though now I doubted that he was ever Beta, after all. No doubt big happenings were going on, down that way. toward Maharal's inner sanctum? That's where the pilot of the Harley scooter went -- though now I doubted that he was ever Beta, after all. No doubt big happenings were going on, down that way.

But those two alternatives were out. I'd never make it more than a few meters. My sole choice lay across the corridor, in a niche containing that all-in-one home copier machine, warm and ready with its hopper full of fresh blanks. What I was about to try went against custom. You can even get fined if you're caught, though everybody tries it once or twice. In my state, I'll probably make a s...o...b..ring monster. In my state, I'll probably make a s...o...b..ring monster.

Still, the poor thing won't have to remember much. Step out of the kiln, run upstairs, and smash the launcher beyond repair. Easy!

All of which was moot until I reached the padded spot where an original must lay his head. Staring up, I wondered -- How the h.e.l.l do I do that? How the h.e.l.l do I do that?

My enzyme clock was ticking out, the missile codes might be restored at any moment ... and now I had another reason to hurry. Through my battered abdomen I picked up vibrations, rhythmic and growing more forceful by the second.

Motors and wheels, I thought, recognizing some. I thought, recognizing some.

Other thuddings reminded me of running feet.

68.

Wherever You're Atman ... or learning what's already known ...

Next you'll discover the soulscape is far larger than you imagined.

And yes, inhabited.

Did you arrogantly expect that the entire universe was waiting upon man to arrive?

Well, in a sense, that's true. Our cosmos is but one of trillions spun off by a single fertile singularity, whose daughter black holes sp.a.w.ned countless more baby universes, each of them exploding and inflating and cooling into billions of galaxies, which in turn made their own black holes and more singularity-sp.a.w.ned universes, and so on ... Among all those experiments, intelligence surely occurred, though far less commonly than you imagined.

Even scarcer still are creatures made of earthly flesh who look up at the stars and covet them across huge gulfs of empty s.p.a.ce.

Most exceptional of all are those who find another way, bypa.s.sing cold vacuum, uncovering shortcuts to far richer fields. Exceptional almost to the point of uniqueness. Hence the vast emptiness of what Maharal dramatically called the "spiritual plane." A deeper continuum, made of stuff more basic than energy and matter. A frontier he meant to stride upon like a G.o.d, using all that raw material to cast paradise in his image.

Oh, you are rarities, you hot-souled humans. So flawed. Wondrously bright. It's a privilege to watch as you begin to waken. As you start to choose.

Have you begun to suspect who and what I am?

This voice that you mistook for a guide ... you'll soon notice that "I" never give commands, or even suggest very much. For the most part I only foresee, comment, and predict.

No, I'm not your Virgil. No mentor or font of wisdom. I'm your echo, echo, you-who-were-Albert-and-more. A way to remember things that you haven't yet learned. One of many conveniences you'll soon grow accustomed to, where paradox is a normal fact of life. you-who-were-Albert-and-more. A way to remember things that you haven't yet learned. One of many conveniences you'll soon grow accustomed to, where paradox is a normal fact of life.

Back in the ortho-moment -- still moving forward in jerks and sudden stops -- events will soon be coming to a head. Just three more swings of Yosil's pendulum while the glazier stores energy, preparing to burst forth whether or not whether or not a human imprint gives it personality. Whether or not a city full of dying souls awaits to feed it, in an orgy of necrophagia. a human imprint gives it personality. Whether or not a city full of dying souls awaits to feed it, in an orgy of necrophagia.

What, you still care about that? Very well then, let me predict that you will go back again to nudge events a little more. Go ahead.

You will find the green Albert who calls himself a "frankie" ... what's left of him ... less than an hour before the ortho-moment. Yes, right over there. Moments after his arm was snapped off by the closing scooter-canopy, sending him plunging through the roof of Yosil's cabin into a debris-strewn living room.

He might use a little encouragement at that point. What approach will you use?

Will you scold him for lying there in the dust, watching the Harley fly away, feeling defeated and ready to expire?

Well, then, try imitating my vatic tone, then listen as the green reacts!

Except that Clara will never get to hear the whole story ... and now the bad guys will win.

Aw, man. Whatever nagging inner voice had to put in that last bit?What guilt-tripping nag? If I could, I'd tear it out! Just shut up and let me die. me die.

You gonna just lie there and let 'em get away with it?

c.r.a.p. I didn't have to take this from some obsessive soul corner ofa cheap-model golem who was misborn a frankie ... became a ghost ... and was about to graduate to melting corpse.

Who's a corpse? Speak for yourself.

Stunning wit, that triple irony. And though I tried hard to ignore thelittle voice ... my right hand and arm moved, lifting slowly till five trembling fingers came within sight ... Then my left leg twitched ... Reacting to imprinted habits a million years old, they started cooperating ...

Oh well. Might as well help.

The bedraggled greenie moves! And just to be sure, you'll nag him again during that long drag through the grotto, then climbing the dark stairs, and so on.

Just don't exaggerate the importance of your badgering -- or the reification triggered by your presence as an observer. These things matter far less than physical action in the "real" world of cause-and-effect. The green might have made it entirely without your/my/our interference!