Kiln People Part 34

Pal's mini-ditto answered in a low whisper, "Uh ... we dated for a while. You don't think she'll recognize me, do you?"

I couldn't help comparing two mental images. One of the real real Pal -- handsome, grizzled, and broad-shouldered, though missing his entire lower half and confined for life to a sustaino-chair -- a picture that had little in common with the agile, grinning little weasel creature on my shoulder except when it came to stuff that really mattered, like memory, personality, and soul. Pal -- handsome, grizzled, and broad-shouldered, though missing his entire lower half and confined for life to a sustaino-chair -- a picture that had little in common with the agile, grinning little weasel creature on my shoulder except when it came to stuff that really mattered, like memory, personality, and soul.

"Maybe not," I answered, stepping past all the waiting dittos, heading for the front of the line. "If you keep your mouth shut."

Several injured golems grumbled as I strode up to Alexie's treatment station, with its unsanitary table surrounded by cheap barrels of golem-grout, dits.p.a.ckle, and praydough. She glanced at me -- and for the first time I noticed she was pretty, in a darkly severe, dedicated-looking way. She began to insist that I wait my turn, but stopped when I raised my s.h.i.+rt, turning to display a long scar of hardened cement on my back.

"Remember your handiwork, Doc? You sure did a great job with that nasty little eater that was chewing out my innards. I recall one of your colleagues said I wouldn't last the day. You should collect on that bet."

She blinked. "I remember you. But ... but that was Tues Tues -- " -- "

Alexie stopped, eyes widening. No dummy, she went silent as the implications sank in.

Smart, yeah. But then why did she go out with Pal?

Dropping my s.h.i.+rt, I asked, "Is there a place where we can talk in private?"

She gave a jerky nod and motioned for us to follow her upstairs.

Palloid kept uncharacteristically silent as Alexie scanned. She quickly discovered the tracker bugs that Kaolin installed, when he so kindly extended our pseudolives.

She also found the bombs.

Maybe just in time, I thought. I thought. Our employer expects us to report from the Teller Building. He may get upset to find out we've slipped the leash. Our employer expects us to report from the Teller Building. He may get upset to find out we've slipped the leash.

"What pig did this to you?" Alexie cursed, carefully dropping the bombs into a battered-looking containment canister. There are are special circ.u.mstances when golems can be legally required to carry autodestructs, with triggers operated by radio control. But it's pretty rare in PEZ. Naturally, Alexie's group opposes the practice in principle. I refrained from telling her that our bombs were installed by the great slavemaster himself, Vic Kaolin. If she knew, she might go online at once to tell everyone in her community of activists. special circ.u.mstances when golems can be legally required to carry autodestructs, with triggers operated by radio control. But it's pretty rare in PEZ. Naturally, Alexie's group opposes the practice in principle. I refrained from telling her that our bombs were installed by the great slavemaster himself, Vic Kaolin. If she knew, she might go online at once to tell everyone in her community of activists.

I couldn't allow that. Not yet.

Palloid needed a few repairs, too. While she worked on him, I gazed past her balcony at the stained gla.s.s window of the main church. The old Christian symbols had been replaced to show a circular rosette, like a flower whose petals all tapered outward before flaring abruptly at the very end, at right angles, to pointed tips. At first, I thought each figure might be a fish, tail thrust outward. Fish ... for arti-fis.h.i.+al? Fish ... for arti-fis.h.i.+al? Then I realized, they were square-headed whales -- sperm whales, apparently -- portrayed gathering together their huge brows in some meeting of cetacean minds. Then I realized, they were square-headed whales -- sperm whales, apparently -- portrayed gathering together their huge brows in some meeting of cetacean minds.

What was the symbolism? Whales -- long-lived, though perpetually endangered -- seemed just the opposite of dittos, who faded fast but sprang forth daily in greater numbers, ever replenished by human ingenuity and desire.

It reminded me a bit of the mandala emblem worn by that technician-priest of Final Options, Inc., who presided over the attempted transcendence of Queen Irene. Though clearly different in detail, both groups were struggling with the same problem, how to reconcile soul-imprinting with abiding religious impulse. But who am I to judge?

Okay, I like these Ephemerals folks. Maybe I owe them a couple of favors. Still, I had to play things coy.

Alexie finished and declared us clean. Suddenly, I felt free free for the first time since ... well, since I met up with Pal and Lum and Gadarene under the shadows of an ancient skooterboard park, getting snared in all this dirty business. for the first time since ... well, since I met up with Pal and Lum and Gadarene under the shadows of an ancient skooterboard park, getting snared in all this dirty business.

"Now I can phone home!" Palloid exulted, forgetting his vow of silence. "Wait'll I tell myself what I've seen! It'll be a rush rush of an inload." of an inload."

Alexie tilted her head, eyes narrowing, perhaps recognizing something about Pal's speech rhythm. I didn't give her time to follow the thought.

"My pa -- my little friend and I both need secure web access," I said. "Do you have a couple of chadors we can use?"

After an uncertain pause, she nodded, then pointed to a coatrack. Two black, shapeless garments hung next to a desk. "They've been cleaned recently. No bugs."

"That'll do fine, thanks." I started toward the coatrack.

"Just so you know," she added, "I subscribe to Waryware Services, Waryware Services, so don't try to pull any scams or illegal stuff while using our access. Take that kind of c.r.a.p elsewhere." so don't try to pull any scams or illegal stuff while using our access. Take that kind of c.r.a.p elsewhere."

"Yes, ma'am."

Alexie frowned. "Can I trust you both not to touch anything else up here, while I go back and help more patients?"

Palloid nodded vigorously. "We'll repay this kindness," I a.s.sured.

"Hm. Maybe you can explain to me sometime how it is that you're still walking around, so long after you should be slurry."

"Sometime. I will."

She departed with a final dubious look. As her footsteps vanished downstairs, I gave Palloid a questioning glance. "All right!" he answered with a lithe shrug. "So maybe she's better than I deserved. Shall we get on with it now? Kaolin won't stay fooled for long."

My little friend leaped onto the desk and I helped him slip under a chador, so the active hood covered him, adjusting to his strange body plan. I threw the other garment over my head and let its black drapery flow over my arms, down past my waist. From the outside, I now looked like some shrouded creature from those dark days, half a century ago, when a third of the countries on Earth forced women to veil their faces and forms under shapeless tents of muslin and gauze. A repressive move that backfired when the old, confining chador transformed into something completely liberating.

From within -- I was suddenly in another universe. The wonderful cosmos of VR, where data and illusion mix in profusions of color and synthetic depth. Sensors under the garment felt the positions of my arms, fingertips, and each puff of breath, reacting to every grunt from my simulated larynx. A few muttered commands, and within seconds I had three active globe-worlds set up.

The first one zoomed toward a smoldering ruin where my house ... Albert's house Albert's house ... had been. Freeware correlators swooped in from the surrounding webscape begging for permission to fetch data for me about this tragic event. A couple of the agents had good reputations, so I posed a few parameters and unleashed them. At the first curiosity layer, it wouldn't cost a penny and there'd be no possibility of a backtrace. Nothing to distinguish me from millions of other net voyeurs. These were major news events, so my enquiries shouldn't attract any attention till I probed close to bone. ... had been. Freeware correlators swooped in from the surrounding webscape begging for permission to fetch data for me about this tragic event. A couple of the agents had good reputations, so I posed a few parameters and unleashed them. At the first curiosity layer, it wouldn't cost a penny and there'd be no possibility of a backtrace. Nothing to distinguish me from millions of other net voyeurs. These were major news events, so my enquiries shouldn't attract any attention till I probed close to bone.

My second bubble skimmed news reports about the sabotage attempt at Universal Kilns. I wanted the official police summary -- especially to see if Albert was still a suspect. Also, any event like this one attracted all sorts of conspiracy theories and minority reports, offered by whistle-blower clubs, accountability hobbyists, solitary paranoiacs, autonomous whatif whatif agents or wandering agents or wandering yesbut yesbut avatars. And if none of those were on the right track, I might post one of my own! Anonymous rumormongering is a venerable kind of mischief that has its own special place. avatars. And if none of those were on the right track, I might post one of my own! Anonymous rumormongering is a venerable kind of mischief that has its own special place. realAlbert would be much better at this. And one of his ebonies would realAlbert would be much better at this. And one of his ebonies would be better still. be better still.

Me? I'm just a green and a frankie. But I'm all that's left.

While those two bubbles churned at the edges, fizzing with correlative foam, I made ready a third, more dangerous than the others.

The just-in-case cache, where Albert kept his backup files, in caseanything happened to our house computer.

Suppose Nell detected the incoming missile ... even bare seconds before it struck. According to programming, she would have dumped as much data as possible into the remote cache. That record might let me glimpse what my maker was doing -- possibly even thinking -- the very minutes that he died.

A big prize. But accessing it could be risky. Whoever sent that missile Whoever sent that missile must've been surveilling the house, in order to be sure Albert was there must've been surveilling the house, in order to be sure Albert was there when it struck. But how intense was the scrutiny? Did they simply prowl when it struck. But how intense was the scrutiny? Did they simply prowl around outside with mini-cameras, keeping track of Al's comings and around outside with mini-cameras, keeping track of Al's comings and goings? What if they managed to penetrate his privacy s.h.i.+elds, say by goings? What if they managed to penetrate his privacy s.h.i.+elds, say by floating a micro-spy inside the house? It happens now and then. Technology keeps changing and the cams keep getting smaller. Only fools count on their secrets staying safe forever. floating a micro-spy inside the house? It happens now and then. Technology keeps changing and the cams keep getting smaller. Only fools count on their secrets staying safe forever.

Someone out there may know everything, including the location of the cache. Lurker software could be waiting to pounce on anyone who tries accessing it. A borrowed chador won't mask me for long.

But what choice did I have? My only alternative was to head over to Pal's place and get drunk together till this artificially extended pseudolife finally expired.

Well, feh to that! I typed with waggling fingertips and muttered some phrases under the chador's sheltering drapery, hoping that Albert didn't change pa.s.swords on me after learning he had made his first frankie.

Almost at once I found myself looking at a pretty good facsimile of Nell.

Experts claim there's no such thing as true digital intelligence, and never will be. I guess they ought to know by now. It's another of those "failed dreams" from TwenCen science fiction that never came true, like flying saucer aliens. Still, simulation simulation has become a high art, and it doesn't take much of an animated program to fool most folks with a well-made talking head ... at least for a couple of turings. has become a high art, and it doesn't take much of an animated program to fool most folks with a well-made talking head ... at least for a couple of turings.

Her face was originally modeled after a junior professor I had a brief thing for, back in college. s.e.xy without being overly distracting. A personification of efficiency without imagination. In addition to demanding and verifying the next-level pa.s.sword, the avatar scanned my face and sent a short-range probe to the pellet buried in my forehead.

Normally, that should be enough. But not this time.

"Dissonance. You appear to be Tuesday's green, yet you wear gray dye and should have expired by now. Access to cache denied until a plausible explanation is given."

I nodded. "Fair enough. Here's your explanation. Briefly, the research guys at Universal Kilns have discovered a way to extend ditto lifespan. That explains why I'm talking to you. The breakthrough appears to have triggered some kind of conflict between Vic Aeneas Kaolin and Dr. Yosil Maharal. It's possible this led to Maharal's murder. And the murder of Albert Morris."

The animated face contorted -- a caricature of doubt. I had to remind myself, this wasn't the Nell I remembered. Only a phantom, a replica that had been stashed in some corner of the vast datasphere, operating in a patch of rented memory.

"Your explanation of the discrepancy in your lifespan is deemed plausible, given other information that was cached by Tuesday's ebony before the explosion. However, a new dissonance must be resolved before I can give you access."

"What new dissonance?"

Nell's phantom did a good approximation of her disapproving frown, a familiar programmed nuance that I never cared for. It generally appeared at times when I was being particularly dense.

"There is no convincing evidence that Albert Morris was murdered."

If I were real, I'd have coughed and sputtered. "No convincing -- ? What kind of smoking gun do you need? Isn't it murder when somebody blows you up in a b.l.o.o.d.y missile attack?"

I had to remind myself, this wasn't a real or clay person to be argued with -- or even a top-level AI. For a software-cache phantom, the shadow-Nell looked good. But it must be damaged, or caught in a semantic bind.

"The missile attack is irrelevant to the dissonant issue at hand -- Albert Morris's putative murder," the face replied. the face replied.

I stared, repeating a single dismaying word.

"Ir -- irrelevant?"

The semantic bind must be severe. d.a.m.n. I might not be able to gain access at all. "How ... could the murder weapon be irrelevant?"

"Organic citizen Albert Morris has been missing for just over a day.No trace of him has appeared on the Web, or on the Streetcam Network, or -- " or -- "

"Well, of course not -- "

"But the disappearance was expected. Moreover, it has no directrelation to the destruction of his home."

Amazed, I could only let this sink in. Expected? No relation to the destruction?

As if compelled, I turned to gaze at the bubbleview that peered down upon the house on Sycamore Avenue. Several hovering voyeur-eyes and newscams contributed to a highly textured image that ballooned larger when I stared, offering a vivid overhead view of blackened timbers and collapsed masonry walls. The remnant chimney jutted like a defiant finger. The back porch, its wrought-iron bal.u.s.trade curled into a corkscrew by recent heat, led to rose trellises that were reduced to charred stumps.

Police flickertape kept gawkers at bay -- both realfolk and dittos who might try for souvenirs. I spotted several teams of ebony specialists inside the cordon, crouching with scanners and samplers, sifting for evidence. Other figures could be seen stepping amid the debris.

While I was busy speaking to the cache-phantom, those correlator agents that I hired had been busy gathering info about the missile attack, lining that bubble's edges with summaries and flowcharts. I stabbed one reporting on the weapon that had done all this. The exact model type was unknown but clearly sophisticated, delivering lots of punch in a small package. That helped explain how it could be smuggled into dittotown and set up without detection. More impressive was the way it launched amid wild gyrations and a dense cloud of obscuring chaff, masking its point of origin as five semi-abandoned houses burned in its wake, erasing any clues to whoever planted the d.a.m.ned thing. Worse, a scarcity of publicams in the area made it extra hard for the cops establish a reverse-time shakeout. They might never pin down who planted it.

I wondered, in awe, Who would have access to such a weapon? And why use it on a measly local private eye? Who would have access to such a weapon? And why use it on a measly local private eye?

The first half of my question had a ready answer. Oh, the police were keeping mum, but professional circ.u.mspection didn't have any hold over thousands of amateur a.n.a.lysts and retired experts out there with time on their hands. After intensely poring over the available information, they reached a consensus.

It must have been military military hardware. And not the normal variety used by our national teams in ritual battles, before ma.s.s audiences on the International Combat Range. Naturally, nations keep their best stuff hidden away, just-in-case. This had to be one of those nasty items, put on the shelf amid hopes that it would never be used. hardware. And not the normal variety used by our national teams in ritual battles, before ma.s.s audiences on the International Combat Range. Naturally, nations keep their best stuff hidden away, just-in-case. This had to be one of those nasty items, put on the shelf amid hopes that it would never be used.

This explained why so many ebonies were crawling over the site. They probably cared much more about the weapon than poor old Albert.

There were other anomalies. Opinions sputtered and fizzed at the bubble's fringe.

This Morris guy was supposedly involved somehow in that attempt to sabotage Universal Kilns, Tuesday night. Obviously they took revenge on him ...

Within just a couple of hours? Ridiculous! It took days or weeks to set up the missile carefully enough to obscure its emplacement from backtracing ...

Right! Morris was obviously framed! The missile was meant to incinerate him so he couldn't testify ...

That could be. Still, there's something fishy about all this. Why haven't they found a body? ...

What body? It was vaporized ...

Blown to smithereens ...

Oh yeah? Then where's the organic residue? ...

There's plenty of DNA traces, identical to Morris's profile ...

That's right, traces! h.e.l.l, if you blew up my house while I was away, you'd find lots of bits ... skin cells, dandruff, hairs. Take the pillow on your bed -- a tenth of its weight consists of stuff that flaked off your head after a thousand nights ...

Ew, disgusting!

... so it's no good just to say they found the guy's DNA in the same house where he lived. To confirm death, show me differentiated tissue! Even if he was pureed, you'd find bits of bone, blood, intestinal cells ... ...

That rocked me. Partly because I should have thought of it! Even as a green-frankie. After all, I still had Albert's memories. His training.

What could this mean?

Probably I'd have reached the obvious conclusion in another second or two. But suddenly I was distracted by the sight of a single figure moving across the smoldering ruins, poking embers with a stick. Something about the slender physique drew me, and the globeworld responded by zooming closer.

Dressed in neutral dungarees, with hair bundled under a cap, it seemed at first to be a high-cla.s.s ditto, especially with her face smeared gray by ash. But when an ebony bowed out of her way, I realized, she must be real. And her movements were those of an athlete.

A small identifier label popped up next to her as the camera view zoomed closer: VICTIM' S a.s.sIGNED HEIR.

My emotions were stronger than expected, given the cheapness of the body I wore.

"Clara," I murmured as her face came into focus, wearing a grim expression, one that combined grief and anger with extreme puzzlement.

"Final pa.s.sword accepted," said a voice -- Nell's phantom, responding to the single word I had spoken. said a voice -- Nell's phantom, responding to the single word I had spoken.

"Access to cache allowed."

I glanced to my right. Nell's computerized image was gone, replaced by a list that scrolled down, showing a catalogue of contents. Nell's simulated voice continued.

"The first item, by relevance, is one that you requested in your present golem form on Tuesday, at thirteen forty-five hours. You asked for a trace of the waiter-contractor who was fired from his job at Tour Vanadium restaurant. Despite being handicapped in this primitive form, I managed to complete the trace. The waiter's name and life summary aregiven below. He has lodged a protest with the Labor Subcontractors a.s.sociation, disclaiming any responsibility for the incident that led to his termination ... "

Waiter? I wondered. Restaurant? Oh. I had forgotten about all that. A trivial matter now.

"There were other items in queue, just before the explosion," Nell's phantom continued. Nell's phantom continued. "Unanswered calls and messages from Malachai Montmorillin, Inspector Blane, Gineen Wammaker, Thomas Facks "Unanswered calls and messages from Malachai Montmorillin, Inspector Blane, Gineen Wammaker, Thomas Facks ... " ... "

It was a long list, and ironic. If only Albert had taken that call from Pal, trying to warn him about a plot involving Tuesday's second gray -- a plot to frame him with the attack on Universal Kilns -- I might not even be here now. I might have spent the rest of my short span as a liberated frankie, detached from Albert's concerns, juggling for kids on a street-corner or trying to find that clumsy waiter. Until at last I fell apart.

"I can also replay a recording of the final call your original made, to Ritu Maharal, arranging a joint trip to investigate her father's cabin in the desert."

What was that? A trip, together?