Kiln People Part 10

Dull pain sensations drew my attention to a place in my back where something truly bothersome was going on. Turning to look at my spine in the Vespa's mirror, I spotted a hole, hole, half the size of my fist, in the lower left ... and it was growing! If I were human, I'd already be crippled or dead. As things stood, I couldn't have much time left. half the size of my fist, in the lower left ... and it was growing! If I were human, I'd already be crippled or dead. As things stood, I couldn't have much time left.

I spotted the intersection of Fourth and Main ... still too far from Pal's to reach him by foot. There were camionetas and jitneys on Main Street. Or I could stick out my talented green thumb and try to hitch. But where?

Then I remembered. The Church of the Ephemerals lay on Upas Street, just two blocks away!

I turned and started running east, while my archetype kept on talking to the alluring Ritu Maharal.

"So my gray was last seen following your father's -- "

"Out the back door of the mansion. After that, no one's seen or heard either of the dittos ... Oh, no. Aeneas just walked in. He looks angry. He's ordering a complete search of the grounds."

"Do you want me to come over and help?"

"I -- just don't know. Are you sure the gray hasn't checked in?"

The pain in my back got worse as I stumbled down Fourth. Something was chewing me up from within! I still had enough sense to step aside for anybody who looked real. Everyone else got out of my way as I grunted and shouted, running toward the one place that might offer help.

An edifice of dark stone loomed ahead. The place used to be a Presbyterian church, but all the real paris.h.i.+oners left this part of town long ago, letting it refill each day with a new servant cla.s.s. One supposedly without souls to save.

That's when the Ephemerals took over.

Underneath a multicolored rosette symbol, the gla.s.s-faced announcement board foretold a coming sermon. Culture can be continuity Culture can be continuity, said a cryptic message in uneven letters. There's more to immortality than inloading. There's more to immortality than inloading.

Staggering up the front steps, I pa.s.sed an a.s.sortment of dittos -- all shades and colors -- who were lounging about, smoking and chatting as if none of them had ch.o.r.es to do. Many were damaged or disfigured, even missing arms or legs. I hurried past, plunging into the dim coolness of the vestibule.

It wasn't hard to spot the lady in charge -- dark brown and real -- sitting on a stool next to a table piled high with papers and supplies. She wrapped the arm of a greenie whose whole left side looked badly burned. Overhead, another of the rosette symbols gradually turned, like a circular mandala or a flower whose petals all flared to wide tips.

"Open your mouth and inhale this," the volunteer told her patient, pus.h.i.+ng a pop-breather at the poor roxie's face. Snapped, it billowed a compact cloud of heavy fumes the green sucked gratefully.

"It'll numb your pain centers. You must be careful then. Any b.u.mp or minor injury might -- "

I interrupted.

"Excuse me. I've never been here before, but -- "

She jerked her thumb to the left. "Please get in line and take your turn."

I saw a rather long queue of injured dittos, patiently waiting. Whatever mishap brought each one to this place, their owners clearly wouldn't inload such memories. Nor were these golems quite ready for recycling. Not with ancient instincts still screaming at them to fight on. The Standing Wave's oldest imperative is endure. endure. So they came here. Like me. So they came here. Like me.

But I couldn't afford to be patient. Turning around, I insisted.

"Please, ma'am. If you'd just look at this."

She raised her eyes, tired and perhaps cranky after long hours in this makes.h.i.+ft clinic. The volunteer nurse started to utter a curt dismissal, only it died on her lips. She blinked, then shot to her feet.

"Somebody help me here, stat! We've got an eater!"

What followed was weird, in a crazed-panicky-resigned kind of way. Like a scene from some old wartime hospital drama, updated with the hasty banter of a pit crew at an auto race. I lay p.r.o.ne on a filthy tabletop, listening through a haze while others dug into my back with makes.h.i.+ft, unsanitized tools.

"It's a clayvore! d.a.m.n, look at the b.a.s.t.a.r.d move."

"Watch out, it's big one. Grab those needle-nose pliers."

"Try to catch it whole. Eaters are illegal in this state. We may get a month's rent from the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who used this!"

"Just grab the little devil before it gobbles something vital. Hey, it's trying for the central ganglia -- "

"s.h.i.+t. Oh wait, I think ... Got it!"

"Oh man, look at the nasty mother. What if they ever gave these things a taste for real flesh?"

"How do you know they haven't, in some secret lab?"

"Don't be paranoid. The Henchman Law ensures -- "

"Shut up and put that awful thing in a jar, will you? Now someone get me a cup of plaster. The ganglia's intact. I think we can get by with a patch."

"I don't know. The wound's pretty deep and this green's young. Maybe we should give the motivators a quick test."

I listened from quite some distance away. The pop-breather stopped pain, all right -- a merciful aspect of ditto design, required by law. It also explains why there are few free clinics. This was the first time I ever used one ... to the best of my knowledge, that is. What a futile idea, after all -- spending effort to save creatures who will vanish in a few hours anyway. Like ditto emanc.i.p.ation, most folks don't see the point.

Yet there I was, fighting to survive, and grateful for the help.

As I said before, a ditto's personality is almost always based on its archetype. Almost Almost always. Maybe I came here for help today because I'm a frankie. Because I no longer share Albert's wry stoicism. At least not completely. always. Maybe I came here for help today because I'm a frankie. Because I no longer share Albert's wry stoicism. At least not completely.

Anyway, the operation was far shorter than any visit to a realperson hospital. No worry about recovery or infections or malpractice suits. I had to admire the volunteer staff, making do with makes.h.i.+ft equipment and stale, off-market parts.

Ten minutes later I was sitting among other brightly hued patients and derelicts in the old church's wooden pews, sipping Moxie Nectar while antidotes countered the pain drug. Underneath a hand-carved sign that read Helping the Kneady Helping the Kneady a crippled purple stood at the old preacher's rostrum, reciting to us from a sheet of paper that she held in her good hand. a crippled purple stood at the old preacher's rostrum, reciting to us from a sheet of paper that she held in her good hand.

"It is not for Man to set boundaries, or to define the limits of soul.

"Once, human beings were as children, needing simple tales and naive visions of pure truth. But in recent generations the Great Creator has been letting us pick up His tools and unroll blueprints, like apprentices preparing to work on our own. For some reason, He's permitted us to learn the fundamental rules of nature and start tinkering with His craft. That's a fact as potent as any revelation.

"Oh, it is a heady thing, this apprentices.h.i.+p and the powers that gowith it. Perhaps, in the long run, it will turn out to be a good thing.

"But that doesn't make us all-knowing. Not yet.

"Most religions hold that some immortal essence stays inside a real human being -- the original body -- when copies are made. The golem-duplicate is just a machine, like some kind of robot. Its thoughts are projections -- daydreams -- sent in a temporary sh.e.l.l to perform errands. To help make your ambitions come true.

"For a rox, afterlife comes only by reuniting with its rig ... just asthe rig achieves it someday by reuniting with G.o.d. That's how older religions dismiss the ambiguity, the moral quandary, the troublesome religions dismiss the ambiguity, the moral quandary, the troublesome morality of making new intelligent beings from clay. morality of making new intelligent beings from clay.

"But doesn't some bit of immortal tincture transfer, each time wecopy? Don't we still feel pa.s.sion and pain, while wearing these brief forms? Does heaven have a place for us, as well? forms? Does heaven have a place for us, as well?

"If it doesn't, well, maybe it ought to."

The sermon droned on while I regathered my thoughts. Again, I saw the rosette pattern overhead -- this time in a stained gla.s.s window that looked half-finished. Several crippled dittos worked in a corner, fas.h.i.+oning another flared bit for the flower. Only this petal looked more like a fish of some kind.

I always figured the people who ran this place -- the Ephemerals Temple -- were related to the self-righteous kooks who picket Universal Kilns, like that greenie at the beach. So-called mancies who want citizens.h.i.+p for dittos. Or maybe the religious aspect meant they were kin to those other other demonstrators ... conservatives who see roxing as an affront to G.o.d. demonstrators ... conservatives who see roxing as an affront to G.o.d.

But neither seems to be true. They aren't asking for equal rights, only compa.s.sion. And to save a little soul-stuff, here and there.

All right, so maybe they're sincere sincere kooks. I'll ask Nell to send the Ephemerals a donation. If realAlbert doesn't veto it. kooks. I'll ask Nell to send the Ephemerals a donation. If realAlbert doesn't veto it.

Still, I got out of there as soon as I could stand, seeking a quiet place to make this recording. Maybe Al and Clara will listen to it together and ponder a few new notions.

That's enough immortality for me. For a frankenstein mutant.

Meanwhile, it's time to get busy. I may not be a faithful duplicate of my original, but we still share some interests. Things I'd like to know before vanis.h.i.+ng away.

9.

The Sleeper Wakes ... or how realAlbert learns he can only count on himself ...

Even in the old days it was normal to wonder, now and then, if you were real. At least it was normal for zen masters and college soph.o.m.ores.

Now, the thought can strike you in the middle of a busy day. Running errands and doing business, you actually lose track of which table you got up from that morning. You can't help checking, lifting a hand to glance at the color, or giving flesh a quiet pinch.

The worst part is dreaming.

Dittos hardly ever sleep. So the mere fact that that you're dreaming ought to rea.s.sure. you're dreaming ought to rea.s.sure.

It ought to. But nightmares have their own logic. You can thrash in bed, worrying that you aren't really you ... but someone else just like you.

My brain still felt loggy when Ritu Maharal's second call got me up for good. Clara would say it serves me right. "Only old-fas.h.i.+oned cyberfarts think they can ignore the sun."

Easy advice, from someone in her profession. Wars are mostly scheduled, nine-to-five affairs nowadays. But in my line of work it's easy to slip off-track. Well, four hours of rest -- plus a bottle of ginger-fizzy Liquid Sleep -- would have to do. Anyway, Ritu's news had me worried.

Shambling into my office, I checked the ditto roster to see how my copies were faring. If gray number one had gone missing, some clue might be evident on the board. Or maybe another of my selves could be diverted to Kaolin Manor.

I blinked at the glowing emblems, unable to believe my eyes. All three All three status lights flashed amber for inaccessible/incommunicado! status lights flashed amber for inaccessible/incommunicado!

"Nell, can you explain this?"

"Not completely. Gray number one vanished less than an hour ago, at the estate of Vic Aeneas Kaolin."

"I know that already."

"Then do you also know they just found that gray's ID pellet lying on the ground in an off-limits area, restricted to Kaolin's intimate servants? The Vic's attorney wants to know what your ditto was doing there."

"How the h.e.l.l should I know?" And to think, this day began so well. "Put that aside for now. What's going on with gray number two?"

"A coded message just came in. That gray has gone over to no-return, autonomous mode."

I blinked in surprise.

"He did? Without consulting me?"

"It's always been your policy to give grays this leeway."

"Yes, but why -- "

"The copy was offered a quick, profitable job with a consortium led by Gineen Wammaker. In order to avoid conflict of interest with your other cases, the investigation must take place under conditions of sequestered cognizance."

"Under conditions of what?" I shook my head. "Oh, you mean no self-telling. I can't inload the dit, or even find out what it does."

This wasn't the first time a copy of mine took a sealed a.s.signment, heading off on its own in order to make a quick profit for the real me. I've been well paid for investigations that I'll never remember, even if the customer was satisfied.

What goes through my mind, when I decide to accept such a case? Sitting here in my real body, I can't picture making the sacrifice. But I guess something in my character makes it possible -- even likely -- under the right circ.u.mstances.

Just hearing about it leaves me feeling rather creepy. "That gray had better be careful," I said in a low voice. "I don't trust the maestra."

"The ditto knows Wammaker can be devious. Do you want me to play back its message? Voice profiles ranged from cautious to paranoid."

Should I find that rea.s.suring? My grays are exceptionally good. In fact, some years ago I was invited to join a research study of people who imprint especially high-fidelity golems. Anyway, what could I do but shrug and accept the situation? If you can't trust your own gray, who can can you trust? you trust?

"All right, then tell me what happened to the green. green. This place is a mess. Dishes piled in the sink, trash bins full. Where's it gone?" This place is a mess. Dishes piled in the sink, trash bins full. Where's it gone?"

In response, Nell threw a phone image on the wall. A bland version of my own face abruptly glistened like a plaster cast, stained a color reminiscent of dying chlorophyll.

"Hi me," the visage waved jauntily against a shabby background, evidently somewhere in dittotown. the visage waved jauntily against a shabby background, evidently somewhere in dittotown. "I just dictated a full report, which I'll send in a minute. But here's the short version. "I just dictated a full report, which I'll send in a minute. But here's the short version.

"You blew it, Albert! Shouldn't imprint when you're wipe-out tired like you were this morning. You've always been lucky, but this time you finally made a frankie."

The green face paused to let the news sink in, grinning with ironic resignation that looked at once familiar and yet odd, somehow. I can't say for sure that I I ever smiled quite that way. ever smiled quite that way.

"What's it like being a mutant copy? I know you're curious, so let me tell you. It feels downright weird. Like I'm me ... and not me ... at the same time. Know what I mean?

"Of course you don't. Anyway, the crux of it is that I won't be doing your dishes or vacuuming your house today. But not to worry! You don't have to call the cops or a disposal service. I'm no public hazard ... no crazy stuff. I just have a few interests of my own, that's all.

"If I get a chance, I'll send one last report before I expire. I owe my creator that much, I suppose.

"Thanks for making me. Guess I'll see you around."

The green ditto winked and signed off. I stared at the blank wall until Nell broke in.

"To the best of my knowledge, this is your very first Frankenstein duplicate. Shall I make an appointment for you to get a routine medical scan? Life Upkeep is having a sale on checkups this week."

I shook my head.

"You heard him. I was tired, that's all."

"Then shall I put out a notice, renouncing the green's pellet?"