Kiln People Part 9

"Are you proposing industrial espionage?" I ask warily.

"No." She shakes her head. "We don't seek to steal any technologies, only to verify their existence. That much is perfectly legal. With confirmation, we can then sue Universal Kilns under one of the transparency laws. For h.o.a.rding, if nothing else."

I stare at her. This is preposterous, on about a dozen levels.

"You honor me with your trust, Maestra. But as I told you, tech-sleuthing is just a sideline for me. There are real experts."

"Whom we find less suitable than you."

I'll bet. What you're asking skirts a razor's edge away from illegal.An expert would know how to keep on the safe side of that border. I might make one mistake and wind up in hock to UK, paying off a might make one mistake and wind up in hock to UK, paying off a criminal-tort lien till the next ice age. criminal-tort lien till the next ice age.

Fortunately, there's an easy way out of this.

"I am flattered, Maestra. But the biggest reason I can't take this a.s.signment is a possible conflict of interest. You see, even as we speak, another gray of mine is at Universal Kilns, consulting about another matter."

Expecting disappointment or anger, I see only amus.e.m.e.nt in Wammaker's eyes. "We're already aware of this. There were newscams and other spy-eyes all over the Teller Building this morning, remember? I saw Ritu Maharal pick you up in a UK limo. Putting that together with public reports of her father's untimely death, I find it simple to imagine what your other gray is discussing, right now at Kaolin Mansion."

At Kaolin Mansion? I thought gray number one was going to UKheadquarters. These people know more about my business than I do!

"ditto Morris, there's a way to insulate you and your rig from legal jeopardy for conflict of interest. Nowadays, it's possible for the left hand not not to know what the right hand is doing, if you get what I mean." to know what the right hand is doing, if you get what I mean."

Unfortunately, I think I do.

There goes my hope of an afterlife.

"It's really quite simple," says Vic Collins. "All we have to do is -- "

He stops, interrupted as a phone rings.

It's my my phone, chattering an urgent rhythm. phone, chattering an urgent rhythm.

The maestra looks miffed, and rightly so. Nell knows I'm in a meeting. If my house computer thinks the call is so d.a.m.n important, she ought to wake Archie.

I grunt an apology, flipping the wrist plate over one ear.

"Yes?"

"Albert? It's Ritu Maharal. I -- I can't see you. Don't you have vid?"

Pause a sec. But none of my other selves will answer, so I must.

"This phone is a cheap strap-on. I'm just a gray, Ritu. Anyway, don't you already have one of me -- "

"Where are are you?" you?" she demands. Something in her voice makes me sit up. It sounds like grief, giving way to rising panic. she demands. Something in her voice makes me sit up. It sounds like grief, giving way to rising panic.

"Aeneas is waiting in the car, getting impatient. He expected you and my ... father's ditto to join him. But you both vanished!"

"What do you mean, vanished? How could they ... "

Now I realize -- she thinks I'm that that gray! The confusion could be cleared up with a few words, but I don't want to cue in Gineen, or her weird friends. So what gray! The confusion could be cleared up with a few words, but I don't want to cue in Gineen, or her weird friends. So what can can I say? I say?

Just in time, another voice cuts in, a bit groggy. It's Archie, roused from his nap again.

"Ritu? It's me, Albert Morris. Are you saying that my gray is missing? And your father's too?"

I flip-shut the phone. My first priority must go to the clients here in front of me -- even if I won't be working for them in a minute or two.

Silence reigns. Finally, Wammaker leans forward, her golden hair spilling past pale shoulders to her famed decolletage.

"Well, Mr. Morris? About our offer. We need to know what you're thinking."

I take a deep breath, knowing it will hasten the metabolism of my fast-draining pseudocells, bringing slightly closer an extinction that can only be forestalled by making it home tonight. Home, to rejoin my original with what I learn today. And yet, I already know Wammaker's plan -- a way that I might legally spy for her without conflict of interest. It requires that I -- this gray doppelganger -- sacrifice all hope of survival, for the good of more important beings.

No, it's even worse than that. What if I refuse? Can she let me leave, knowing that I might might report this meeting to Vic Kaolin? Sure, I post a PI confidentiality bond for all customers. I'd never break a patron's confidence. But the paranoid maestra could decide not to risk it, since UK can buy my bond for pocket change. report this meeting to Vic Kaolin? Sure, I post a PI confidentiality bond for all customers. I'd never break a patron's confidence. But the paranoid maestra could decide not to risk it, since UK can buy my bond for pocket change.

To be safe, she'll destroy this body of mine, content to pay Albert triple damages.

And he'll take the cash, too. Who bothers to avenge a dit?

Wammaker and her guests watch me, awaiting an answer.

Looking past them, I seek visual comfort in something green and growing -- indoor plants that the maestra of Studio Neo has scattered casually about her meeting chamber, to give it a homey feel.

"I think ... "

"Yes?"

Her famous indecent smile pulls at something dark inside you. Inside even clay.

Take another deep breath.

"I think your ficus looks a bit dry. Have you tried giving it more water?"

8.

Feats of Clay ... Tuesday's greenie finds his faith ...

Moonlight Beach is one of my favorite spots. I go there with Clara whenever the crowds let up, especially if we have tourism coupons that are about to expire.

Of course, it's set aside for archies. All the best beaches are. I've never been here as a green before ... unless some of my missing dittos vanished the same way I did today. By throwing away all hope and playing hookey.

Parking the scooter in a public rack, I hiked to the bluff edge for a look, hoping to find the place half-empty. That's when rules relax, archies feel less territorial, and coloreds like me can safely visit.

Tuesday's a weekday. That used to make a difference, when I was a kid.

But no such luck. People swarmed across every open area with blankets, umbrellas, and beach toys. I spied a few bright orange lifeguards, padding about with webbed arms and feet, puffing their ma.s.sive air sacs while patrolling for danger. Everyone else was some shade of human-brown, from dark chocolate to pale as sand.

If I set foot down there, I'd stand out like a sore thumb.

Peering south past a distant fluttering marker, I saw the rocky spit that's set aside for my own kind. A brightly tinted mob, crammed together at the point where rip tides and jagged outcrops make things dicey for real flesh. No lifeguards ventured down there, just a few yellow-striped cleaners, equipped with hooks to dispose of the unlucky. Anyway, who wants to waste beach time on an imitation? It's hard enough getting a reservation to come in person.

Suddenly, I felt resentful of all the rules ... the waiting lists and tourism allotments ... just to spend a little time at the sh.o.r.e. A century ago, you could do what you wished and go where you liked.

That is, if you were rich and white, a small inner voice reminded me. a small inner voice reminded me. The whitish-brown of a ruling elite. The whitish-brown of a ruling elite.

The mere idea of racism seems bizarre today. Yet each generation has problems. As a kid, I endured food rationing. Wars were fought over fresh water. Now we suffer afflictions of plenty. Underemployment, the purple wage, state-subsidized hobby-frenzy, and suicidal ennui. There are no more quaint villages or impoverished natives. But that means having to share all of Earth's fine places with nine billion fellow sightseers -- and another ten to twenty billion golems.

"Go ahead, brother. Make a statement."

The voice broke my gloomy reverie. I turned to see another greenie, standing off to one side of the trail. Archies and their families ignored him as they pa.s.sed, though he brandished a placard flowing with bright letters: Compa.s.sion is color-blind.

Look at me. I exist. I feel.

The ditto grinned, meeting my gaze and gesturing toward Moonlight Beach.

"Go on down there," he urged. "I can tell, you want to make them see you. Seize the day!"

I've noticed more of these creatures lately. Agitators for a cause that leaves most people mystified -- at once both echoing past righteous struggles and trivializing them. I'm torn between disgust and a wish to pillory him with questions. Like why does he make make dittos, if he hates being discriminated against when he dittos, if he hates being discriminated against when he is is one? one?

Would he give equal rights to ent.i.ties that last no longer than may-flies? Shall we give the vote to copies that can be ma.s.s-produced at whim -- especially by the rich?

And why doesn't he he go down to the beach, right now? Jostling among real humans, trying to jog their conscience, till one of them gets irritated enough to demand his ID pellet, posting a fine against his owner for some minor insult. Or till one of them decides to go down to the beach, right now? Jostling among real humans, trying to jog their conscience, till one of them gets irritated enough to demand his ID pellet, posting a fine against his owner for some minor insult. Or till one of them decides to pay pay a fine, for the pleasure of cutting him to tiny pieces. a fine, for the pleasure of cutting him to tiny pieces.

Of course that's why he stands on this bluff, holding up a sign but otherwise staying out of the way. This fellow is probably a brotherdit to some of the protestors I saw this morning, outside Universal Kilns. Somebody whose fervor is to send out proxies that demonstrate all day. An expensive avocation ... and an effective way to protest.

That is, if his cause weren't absurd! More proof that most people have way too much free time nowadays.

Suddenly, I wondered what the h.e.l.l I was doing there. I began today having fantasies about taking Clara's pleasure-ditto for myself, wallowed in philosophical issues beyond reach of a mere green, then abandoned the ch.o.r.es I had been made for, running off to waste beach time in a body that can't enjoy the sand's texture or the sea's tart taste.

What's wrong with me today?

Then it hit me. A weirdly thrilling perception.

I must be a frankie!

A borderline case, for sure. No staggering around with arms outstretched, going unh-uhhhhnh unh-uhhhhnh like Boris Karloff. Still, they warn you that dog-tired neurons are a recipe for trouble when you imprint, and poor Albert must have been running on fumes when he made me. like Boris Karloff. Still, they warn you that dog-tired neurons are a recipe for trouble when you imprint, and poor Albert must have been running on fumes when he made me.

I'm a false copy. A Frankenstein!

Realizing this, a strange acceptance settled over me. The beach lost its allure and the agitator's rhetoric palled. I retrieved my scooter, aiming it downtown. If this frankied rox lacks enough patience for house ch.o.r.es, maybe I'll take it over to Pal's and listen to him for a while.

If anyone can relate to my condition, it'll be Pal.

Update. Post-recorded about an hour later.

I just had some bad luck. Bad and weird.

On my way to Pallie's, I suddenly found myself trapped between some hunters and their prey.

Maybe I was preoccupied, careless, and driving much too fast. Anyway, I missed the warning signs. Maser flashes from the helmets worn by a pack of urban idiots, baying and yelling as they chased their quarry through the steel and masonry canyons of Old Town.

Other dittos veered aside. Lumbering din.o.buses squatted down and hunched their scaly flanks. But I saw thinning traffic as an opportunity and zoomed straight toward the opening. Soon, maser beams were all over me, piercing clothes and tingling pseudoflesh. They resonate when they touch real skin, warning hunters not to shoot. But there aren't many archies downtown anymore, so it makes a great recreational battleground ... for jerks.

They came dashing round the next corner, sweeping the intersection with hi-tech sensors and weapons. A hunter shouted, raising his bulbous, cannonlike thing in my direction!

Why me? I sniveled. I sniveled. What'd I ever do to you? What'd I ever do to you?

The shooter fired and fierce heat pa.s.sed behind my left ear. A poor shot, if he was aiming at me.

Swerving my scooter to speed the other way, I braked barely in time to avoid hitting a gangly, naked humanoid! Bright yellow but stained with red concentric target-circles on his chest and back, he teetered in front of the Vespa staring past me, wild-eyed, then spun about to flee.

The pursuers screamed jubilation -- sludgeheads grabbing an afternoon's adrenaline rush. Their guns sizzled, shooting past me again, cheerfully risking a dit-bystander fine if they fried my my corpus in the bargain. And maybe I should've gone for the trade! Met the guns with outstretched arms. Albert would get double damages for a mere frankie. Good trade. corpus in the bargain. And maybe I should've gone for the trade! Met the guns with outstretched arms. Albert would get double damages for a mere frankie. Good trade.

Instead, I hunched on the handlebars, slamming the throttle. The Vespa answered with a reedy wail, rearing like a bucking pony. At its high point, something hit the front tire. There were other impacts, on the machine and my body, as my scooter dug in and fled.

The quarrydit was fast -- puffing, running and dodging like mad. Still he spared me a brief glance as I pa.s.sed, and I realized two things.

One: he has the same face as one of the hunters.

Two: I could swear he's having a good time!

Well, the world is filled with all kinds of kinkiness and folks with too much free time. But I was busy controlling the wounded Vespa. By the time I turned a corner, beyond the line of fire, it was coughing, smoking, then died.

I stood next to my poor scooter, mourning its fatal wounds, when the phone rang, emitting an urgent rhythm.

By reflex, I tapped my left ear, with its cheap implant, in time to hear one of Albert's other selves answer.

"Yes?"

"Albert? It's Ritu Maharal. I -- I can't see you. Don't you have vid?"

Words buzzed while I examined the scooter. Some kind of gummy substance splattered over the hybrid engine, shorting it out. I didn't dare touch the stuff, clearly devised to incapacitate dittos.

" ... I'm just a gray, Ritu," a voice answered. a voice answered. "Anyway, don't you already have one of me -- " "Anyway, don't you already have one of me -- "

"Where are are you? Aeneas is waiting in the car, getting impatient. He expected you and my ... father's ditto to join him. But you both vanished!" you? Aeneas is waiting in the car, getting impatient. He expected you and my ... father's ditto to join him. But you both vanished!"

I found more of the same gunk on the right leg of my paper garment. Hurriedly, I tore and kicked away the shredded pants, then searched for more.

"What do you mean, vanished? How could they ... "

"Ritu? It's me, Albert Morris. Are you saying that my gray is missing? And your father's too?"