Kiln People Part 53

No matter. You will do this and it will aggravate him. It may help save a million lives, and divert the Standing Wave toward a different destiny. So by all means go ahead.

Now perhaps you will also go back a few hours, to a moment in Pal's apartment, whispering for the green to turn his head and listen at a crucial moment. Perhaps ... oh, of course you will.

You always meddle at the beginning. It is part of learning. Becoming.

Back in the ortho-moment -- another pendulum swing has pa.s.sed, like the ticking of a t.i.tanic clock. Surprising resonances perturb the amplified Standing Wave, raising concern in the two stalemated combatants. Probability amplitudes are collapsing like quantum dominoes all around.

Their battle is over. It's out of their control now.

To Yosil, the news is calamitous. The germ missiles may not launch at all! No viral rain of death virus to mow down millions and feed the glazier beam when it arrives. Hovering above the city, it will harvest only a trickle. The few thousand who normally die each day will discover an afterlife unlike anything they were taught about in church! But Yosil despairs that such meager reinforcement will never give the glazier the boost it needs to become a spiritual behemoth, capable of bending the soulscape to its mighty will.

The other personality -- once rooted in Albert Morris -- had succ.u.mbed to Yosil's dream, adopting it as his own. Can he now accept it's over and choose a more modest goal?

Others plunge into this fray.

While the glazier builds toward ignition, the organic body of realAlbert sways along the axis of the beam, like an anchor dragged by a rising storm -- -- as Ritu and Beta arrive with arms outstretched, united in purpose at last, bent on pushing him aside, or worse.

I know you're curious to probe Ritu's complex, tormented soul. By all means, use the new powers of perception. Soon you'll see the crime that set her tragic tale in motion ...

... the reason why her syndrome so resembles and exaggerates the very same one suffered by Yosil.

Not genes alone, but also a trauma trauma they both suffered long ago, when a doting father tried using clever new technology to encourage and spur his infant daughter's developing brain, by imprinting talents from one loving soul to another. they both suffered long ago, when a doting father tried using clever new technology to encourage and spur his infant daughter's developing brain, by imprinting talents from one loving soul to another.

Like playing music for a fetus in the womb -- that is how poor Yosil imagined it -- a harmless gift from one generation to the next, alas, before anyone understood about subjective uniqueness and soul-orthogonality. Before the dreadful harm was widely known. Before such things were outlawed.

Tragedy can have its own triste beauty, evoking tears or laughter. This one rippled on with gorgeously transfixing horror worthy of Sophocles, across years wracked with silent remorse, obsession, and pain.

Yes, you'll pity them. From this new perspective, you will commiserate, dwell upon, and share their agony.

Later.

Others plunge into this fray.

A spiral-patterned golem charges through the opposite door, shouting about betrayal in terms that only a multibillionaire would use. And you have to hand it to Aeneas Kaolin. (You will will hand it to him, I predict.) It took ingenuity that no one imagined him capable of, to penetrate the many-layered disguises and defenses erected by a family of brilliant paranoiacs. Yosil and Ritu and Beta underestimated him. So did Albert Morris. hand it to him, I predict.) It took ingenuity that no one imagined him capable of, to penetrate the many-layered disguises and defenses erected by a family of brilliant paranoiacs. Yosil and Ritu and Beta underestimated him. So did Albert Morris.

With a little more time ... or if he trusted Morris enough to confide and ally with him from the beginning ... Kaolin might have made a difference. But now? Even as he raises a weapon, shouting threats and demands to desist, Aeneas clearly knows that it's too late.

Same with the warriors warriors now arriving from the military base, bursting through that dark tunnel under Urraca Mesa. Armed, armored, and representing the wrath of abused taxpayers, it is the cavalry at last -- pulverizing Beta's rear guard to reach the high parapet and gaze down on all of this. Among their weapons are cameras, beaming images around the world. now arriving from the military base, bursting through that dark tunnel under Urraca Mesa. Armed, armored, and representing the wrath of abused taxpayers, it is the cavalry at last -- pulverizing Beta's rear guard to reach the high parapet and gaze down on all of this. Among their weapons are cameras, beaming images around the world.

Light cleanses. The World Eye was supposed to prevent all big nasty conspiracies and mad scientist labs.

It very nearly did.

Maybe next time it will.

If there is a next time.

Has anyone noticed the alignment yet?

Like a superheated, pressurized mix of air and explosive, the amplified Standing Wave has grown beyond containment or forbearance. Nor can you r.e.t.a.r.d the advancing ortho-moment any longer. The time for meddling is about to end -- -- as Kaolin charges toward the red mirror -- as Ritu and Beta plunge toward the gray -- as soldiers throw themselves courageously over the balcony on ropes made of living clay -- as realAlbert lifts his eyes ... the only one who seems, quite suddenly, to know what's happening.

69.

Joe Friday ... as Gumby tries to do what comes naturally ...

A tester once told Albert he was "born for this era," with the right combination of ego, focus, and emotional distance to make perfect duplicates. Well, except for me, his first and only frankie. Still, I was willing to gamble on that talent -- -- providing I could somehow reach the scanning plate of a simple copier.

This time there was a chair nearby. Fumes wafted from my poor arm as it dragged me over there, one slither at a time. Worming around to grip a chair leg with my chin, I hauled it back, positioning the chair next to the big white duplicating machine. Only about a kilo of my body ma.s.s melted along the way.

It doesn't go high enough, I quickly realized. Glancing around for something else, I spied a wire-mesh waste receptacle three meters away. With a groan that escaped through several cracks other than my mouth, I set out to fetch it -- a journey that felt like crossing the North Pole while being pelted by asteroids. I quickly realized. Glancing around for something else, I spied a wire-mesh waste receptacle three meters away. With a groan that escaped through several cracks other than my mouth, I set out to fetch it -- a journey that felt like crossing the North Pole while being pelted by asteroids.

Half of my remaining ceramic teeth fell out while gripping the metal basket on my way back. Then, the first time I tried tossing it on top of the chair, I missed missed and had to repeat the whole d.a.m.ned thing. and had to repeat the whole d.a.m.ned thing.

This had better be enough, I thought, when the basket was finally in place, upside down on the cushioned seat. Any minute, someone might restore contact with that missile launcher upstairs and resume the countdown. And those vibrations of running feet grew closer by the second. Whatever was going on, I wanted the power to act! Even as the shambling replica of a frankie. I thought, when the basket was finally in place, upside down on the cushioned seat. Any minute, someone might restore contact with that missile launcher upstairs and resume the countdown. And those vibrations of running feet grew closer by the second. Whatever was going on, I wanted the power to act! Even as the shambling replica of a frankie.

Well, here goes.

From the floor I reached up, grabbed the edge of the chair, and pulled hard. My head and torso weighed much less now -- and grew lighter with each pa.s.sing moment -- still the strain was enormous. Fresh pock-fissures erupted all along my quivering arm, each one venting noxious steam ... till at last my chin broached over the ledge, taking some of the pressure. That made things a bit easier, though no less painful. Commanding my elbow to twist up and around, I managed to push down now, dragging my attenuated body to perch at the edge of the seat.

So much for the simple part.

Halfway to the copier platform now, I could see a glowing green START b.u.t.ton within easy reach, but useless till my head reached the perceptron tendrils. Still, I took a moment to smack the b.u.t.ton, telling the machine to start readying a blank. If I did manage to make it, there'd be few seconds to spare. Machinery rumbled and rumbled.

Now things get tricky.

Fortunately, the chair had arms ... twice as many as I did, actually. That helped as I leveraged myself alongside the upended wastebasket, flopping and wedging my body against the metal mesh while my sole decaying limb pushed. Then I had to reach higher, onto the copier itself, searching for fingerholds -- and as I strained again, a couple of digits broke off, liquefying horribly as they fell past my good eye to splat on the floor.

This time, the fissures along my arm resembled chasms, sweating fluid the color of magma. It was a race to see whether dissolution would win, or hard baking from heat, like happened to that leg I threw at the missile launcher. Suppose I self-cooked in place! What a sculpture I'd make. Call it A Study in Obstinacy A Study in Obstinacy, reaching and grimacing while struggling to haul a useless body ...

That's it, I realized, grateful for any inspiration, I realized, grateful for any inspiration, drop the deadweight! drop the deadweight!

Barely thinking, I applied lessons that I learned upstairs, pulling my self self inward and away from remote parts. The whole bottom half of my torso was useless to me now -- so ditch it! Scavenge the remaining enzymes. Send them up for the arm's final tug. inward and away from remote parts. The whole bottom half of my torso was useless to me now -- so ditch it! Scavenge the remaining enzymes. Send them up for the arm's final tug.

I felt what was left of my abdomen crumble away. With the load suddenly lightened, my arm gave a hard yank yank ... and snapped off at the shoulder. ... and snapped off at the shoulder.

I don't think I could ever describe what it felt like as a ragged head and upper chest, sailing high enough to look down at my goal, the white surface where a human original was supposed to lay in comfort, blithely commanding obedient machinery to make cheap doubles -- a perfect serving cla.s.s that can't rebel and always knows what to do.

How simple that used to seem!

During my flying arc, I wondered, a.s.suming I land okay, will I be a.s.suming I land okay, will I be able to use my chin and shoulder to maneuver around? To guide my head able to use my chin and shoulder to maneuver around? To guide my head between the tendrils? between the tendrils?

Would that automatically trigger imprinting, now that the START b.u.t.ton had been pressed? If not, how was I to press it again? Problems, problems. And you know what? I would have found solutions, too. I know it. If that darn trajectory had just carried me where I wanted to go.

But like Moses, I could only watch the promised land from afar. Coming down, my head barely missed missed the platform, caroming off the copier's edge and then against the wastebasket, knocking it off the chair so it tumbled, landing upright on the floor. the platform, caroming off the copier's edge and then against the wastebasket, knocking it off the chair so it tumbled, landing upright on the floor.

As if that weren't enough, what happened next was the real capper.

I rolled across the seat and teetered for a fragile moment, then fell off to land (appropriately enough, at the end of one h.e.l.l of a week) inside a receptacle labeled TRASH rolled across the seat and teetered for a fragile moment, then fell off to land (appropriately enough, at the end of one h.e.l.l of a week) inside a receptacle labeled TRASH

70.

Soul's My Destination ... Will it be all right, now that the glazier beam has fired?

What a sight that was.

The t.i.tanic Standing Wave blasted through both clay mirrors, hurling the pendulum -- with ditYosil aboard -- deep into a stony ceiling. Yet all the others who were standing around barely got singed. For the mighty wave distortion instantly turned turned on an axis that lay at right angles to every known direction, vanishing into a distance no living eye could follow. on an axis that lay at right angles to every known direction, vanishing into a distance no living eye could follow.

Except for realAlbert, that is, who turned his head as if to track its departure, wearing a smile so enigmatic, so knowing, that Ritu and her twin brother simply stopped in their tracks. One moment they were rushing toward him with hands raised to strike. The next, they simply dropped their arms and backed away, staring at him.

Yes, the "anchor" is still attached, by a slender thread.

Shall we follow?

From the beginning, when brilliant, tormented Yosil Maharal still thought he could design and control everything, the beam's first goal had been the nearest city. Where else could so many spirit-flickers be found close together, cl.u.s.tered like a tidy field of crops growing alongside a fallow prairie? It must have seemed a good place to harvest nourishment for the next step.

Had he bent his egomania enough to involve peers and collaborators -- even a whole civilization -- Yosil might have discovered and corrected all the flaws in his splendid plan. Technical and conceptual flaws. Moral flaws. But "mad scientist" is almost defined by solipsism -- a neurotic need to avoid criticism and do everything alone.

Without Maharal, it might have taken another generation for humanity to make this attempt. Because Because of him, humanity could have been destroyed. of him, humanity could have been destroyed.

As it turns out, there is no plague tearing through the metropolis when the glazier arrives overheard. No charnelhouse of rapid pestilence providing enough death manna to gorge upon at length. Just a few thousand souls per day, cast free of their organic moorings by accident or natural causes, rise gently to the hovering waveform, finding welcome room for their vibratory modes. After some initial surprise, they add breadth and subtlety to a superposition of states ...

But it's no feast.

This Standing Wave won't become a "G.o.d" by raw power alone.

Yosil's simple plan has failed.

Time to try something else.

Turning sideways again, the macrowave pursues a scent that few ever noticed before. Out to sea it flies, two thousand kilometers, where blue pelagic currents course above deep trenches -- an abode for cephalopods, some nearly as long as a supertanker, with eyes like dinner plates and brains reeking of high intelligence. Aliens, right here on Earth.

Is this it?

Plunging deep where sunlight never goes, we join the world of giant squid, sampling what it's like to flow along by sphincter-driven water jet, touching and experiencing a liquid world with long suckers that dangle beyond the limits of vision. We feed. We chase, mate, and sp.a.w.n. We compete and scheme by logic all our own, expressing concepts in warm flashes of intricate color along our flanks.

And, once in a great while, we also tremble tremble and and worship worship when Death comes plunging down at us from h.e.l.l, the hot world above. For that narrow instant, while fleeing desperately, we clasp and cherish something that glimmers like hope -- when Death comes plunging down at us from h.e.l.l, the hot world above. For that narrow instant, while fleeing desperately, we clasp and cherish something that glimmers like hope -- Then the devil is upon us, ma.s.sive, black, devouring. His shrill voice strikes deep, paralyzing, turning guts to jelly! Then come jaws, small but powerful. White teeth reflect the protest pigmentations of our bioluminescent skin as they tear unto us, dragging us upward ...

So, it wasn't the giant squid who attracted the glazier beam this way. They're so exotic, perhaps they'll find another soulscape of their own.

It was their hunters who drew the macrowave here.

Sperm whales, returning from the crushing depths, their hunger sated on fresh cephalopod, now gather at the pleasant wavetops to breathe and splash. Though occupied with natural concerns -- the quest for food and reproductive success -- now and then as many as a dozen creatures congregate, congregate, touching ma.s.sive brows. touching ma.s.sive brows.

Contained within, far larger than any other organ, is a mound of waxy substance, malleable as wet clay, subtle at refracting and reshaping sound, enabling these stalkers of the deep to propel cunning beams that find -- and stun -- their prey in utter darkness. Sculpted sound is to them as the dynamic recoloring of flesh is to squid, or syntactical word chains to a human being. All are ways to gossip, cooperate, deceive, meditate, or -- when all else fails -- seek urgent meaning in prayer.

The sperm whales congregate, flared tails pointing outward like a petaled flower, or mandala, or rose window. Brows meeting, they exchange complex sonic shapes/images/ideograms with properties that long ago emerged from the background noise of mere survival. Meanings congeal in the wax, delicate as spiderwebs, unique as snowflakes, multifarious as an ecosystem.

They were doing this long before Bevvisov learned to imprint souls in clay.

Off again!

Using so much energy, shouldn't the glazier be growing hungry? There was beauty amid the squid and whales -- but no great nourishment. Then why does the macrowave seem un undisappointed as it rotates through an axis invented on the spot -- twisting the very context out of which raw vacuum arose -- then building speed on a course that it makes up as it goes?

We seem to have discovered outer s.p.a.ce.

In flickering sequence we pa.s.s great sweeps of stars. Mammoth cl.u.s.ters of bright pinpoints roll by in leaps that devour emptiness as if it wasn't there. Metric itself becomes a component of the wave, its ally in travel, rather than an obstacle.

Searching ... examining ... every now and then, we pause briefly to scrutinize -- a red giant, tumid and swollen as it slowly expands, eating its children. Then -- an aged white dwarf, born during the galaxy's first generation. Having blown away much of its substance, it will (ironically) endure long ages more on a starvation diet, glittering faintly for no one -- unlike a gluttonous blue super-giant, whose mere million years tick by with blazing speed. Far too ma.s.sive for any other goal, it must choose glory over life -- that is, until it's cleaved by a surprising force, slicing the colossus in two. A singularity! Not a black hole, this one is long and stringy -- an exceptional relic of creation, a faceted flaw in s.p.a.cetime, deadly, gorgeous only to those who know its language of pure math -- having already stirred turmoil when it pa.s.sed through an immense molecular cloud, spinning vortices that self-gravitate, flattening to ionized skirts that whirl and merge into newborn systems -- then on again we speed, past spiral arms that gleam like diamond dust, until -- we find ourselves zooming down to a modest yellow sun ... a star of pleasant middle age ... a steady hearth, unpretentious, with a retinue of planet-specks -- one of which seems luckier than most ... warm-not-hot, ma.s.sive-not-ponderous, wet-not-drowned, and kneaded by just enough falling objects to keep things interesting.

We plunge to this world, gorgeous in its balance of ocean and sky, sea and sh.o.r.e, mountain and plain, lake and hill, pond and knoll, tree and shrub, prey and predator, fungus and rotifer, parasite and prion, clay and crystal, molecule and atom, electron and ...

Diving ever smaller, we cry out to wait!

Go back!

What was that pa.s.sing glimpse we just had of gleaming, multibranched spires built by fascinating hands? A brief impression of docked ships and shops and tree-perched homes where shaded figures spoke a demure language, like song?

Backtrack. It should be easy to find. Just return to a size and scale midway between a cosmos and a quark.

Another civilization. Another race of thinking, feeling beings! Wasn't that what you were looking for?

Apparently not.

71.

Head Basket ... or how to become a real boy ...

Little remained of the gleaming me that stepped out of a kiln Tuesday morning, resigned to cleaning the house and running the ch.o.r.es of Albert Morris. A body that wound up living -- let's see -- close to three extra days, thanks to Aeneas Kaolin, and a dash of mulish stubbornness. A self who wound up doing a whole lot more than scrub toilets! Who gathered so many interesting memories and thoughts -- what a pity there'd be no chance to deposit them. To share them.

The things I've seen.