Kiln People Part 8

Care to bet I'll I'll be sent to hear Pal's latest conspiracy theory? be sent to hear Pal's latest conspiracy theory?

Crum. What's a greenie for?

Had to pick up the lawn mower from fix-it shop. Repairs cost eight-fifty, plus abatement fees for the old gas engine. Tied it securely to the back of the Vespa, but that messed the scooter's balance. Nearly cracked up in a fast curve on the way home. Got a five-point violation, too. c.r.a.p.

At least the mower started right up. (Mitch, the repair guy, knows his stuff. He was there in person, this time.) Soon I had the lawn edged better than that orange-striped "gardener" everyone else in the neighborhood hires. Things grow on my tiny patch of earth. Roses. Fresh carrots and berries. I like growing things, same as Clara needs to hear water lapping on the hull of her houseboat.

Next, tackle the pile of dishes in the sink, then toilets. Might as well clean the whole d.a.m.n house while I'm at it. Except vacuuming. Lord Archie's gotta nap.

Ho-hum.

Some days I weigh existential matters. Simple ones a green can grasp. Like, should I volunteer NOT to inload tonight? I mean, why remember this ba.n.a.lity? Albert's already experienced nearly a hundred subjective years, counting golem recollections. Some techies put a theoretical max at five centuries. So why not conserve?

I've debated this with myself lots of times, and recall always deciding to inload. Well, duh! Only those dittos who chose continuity became part of continuing memory. But Nell says more than a hundred and eighty of my copies chose oblivion instead. Dispirited deputy-selves who endured dreary days that I'm better off forgetting.

Heck, there are days I had in person in person that I'd erase, if I could. An ancient problem, I guess. At least nowadays you get a little choice in the matter. that I'd erase, if I could. An ancient problem, I guess. At least nowadays you get a little choice in the matter.

Pausing at Archie's work screen, I looked over our ongoing cases -- about a dozen routine investigations, tracked by priority and progress charts. Most can be pursued by Net -- making remote enquiries, sifting data from public sources, or persuading the owners of private streetcams to share their posse archives without a court order. Sometimes I send out my own spy-wasps to follow suspects around town. I couldn't afford to stay in business if everything had to be done in person, or even by golem-duplicate.

Half of the cases involve my specialty -- snaring copyright violators. Pros like Beta offer endless aggravation, but fortunately most rip-offs are done by amateurs. The same goes for face thieves, who send out dittos with illegally forged features, pretending they were roxed from other people. Troublemaking kids, mostly. Catch 'em. Fine 'em. Teach 'em to behave.

Then there are jealous spouses -- a private eye's standby, since the days of ragtime.

Some modern marriages are complex, admitting new partners by joint consent. Most folks prefer old-fas.h.i.+oned monogamy. But what does that mean nowadays? If a husband sends a ditto to fool around while he's busy at work, does that const.i.tute fantasy, flirtation, or outright infidelity? If a wife rents a little whitey to get through a lonely afternoon, is that prost.i.tution, or a bit of harmless diddling with an appliance?

Most people think flesh-on-flesh still feels best. But clay can't get pregnant or pa.s.s disease. It lets you rationalize, too. Some partners draw the line at inloading memories after a dittos.e.x affair. If it isn't remembered, it didn't happen. No recall, no foul.

But if you can't remember it, what was the point?

All the complications can get confusing for creatures with jealous whims that formed in the Stone Age. Anyway, hurt feelings aren't my concern, just facts. The crux is that civilization fails without accountability. What people do with it is their own concern.

Scanning the screen, I see I'll need four dits tomorrow. Two just for stakeouts and tails. The freezer is well stocked with blanks, but our scooter situation is dire.

Onscreen I see that gray number two just requested more Turkomens. I prefer Vespas, but who listens to a green?

Looking around the house, I see more cleaning to do. Pencils to sharpen and notes to file. More grotty ch.o.r.es, so the real me can spend precious fleshtime being creative.

I'd let out a long sigh ... if this body were equipped for it.

To h.e.l.l with all this. I'm going to the beach!

7.

Price of Perfection ... gray number two gets an offer he can't refuse ...

The maestra has guests.

Four are females, identical, with frizzy pink hair and earthen-red skin so dark it's almost umber. They look nervous, agitated. One stares constantly at a vid-screen, nodding and grunting. A sluglike string of flesh seems to ooze out the side of her head, clamping a pseudopod onto an electronic sensor pad.

She's jacked in, jacked in, of all things! Sending and receiving straight from her clay brain into the Net -- direct linkage, digital to neuroa.n.a.log -- a nasty, unwholesome process that can fry you silly. of all things! Sending and receiving straight from her clay brain into the Net -- direct linkage, digital to neuroa.n.a.log -- a nasty, unwholesome process that can fry you silly.

The remaining guest is male, modeled on an archetype who must be painfully slender in person. Following a fas.h.i.+on trend, this ditto avoids the stodgy old standard colors that were prescribed during the first generation of kilning.

His skin is plaid. plaid.

Ouch. I can barely make out his face amid the visual noise. Instead of paper garments, he wears lavish cloth. And the woven pattern of his s.h.i.+rt and pants actually matches the skin dye job. Expensive styling for a ditto!

Gineen Wammaker steps forward in delectable person, her real flesh nearly as pale as one of her pleasure roxies. Only flas.h.i.+ng green eyes give away her inner nature as a fierce businesswoman who demolishes compet.i.tors without mercy. She takes my facsimile hand in her real ones.

"How good of you to send a gray so quickly, Mr. Morris. I know how busy you are, and how focused your profession requires you to be."

In other words, she forgives me, even though I really should have come in person. Still, Wammaker's sarcasm is milder than usual. Something's fishy, all right.

"I hope the bonus I sent shows adequately my grat.i.tude for your part in shutting down the pirate copying facility."

I haven't seen any bonus. Maybe she wired it while I waited outside. Typical. Anything to keep you off-balance.

"It's a joy to be of service, Maestra." I bow and she inclines her head slightly, letting golden locks spill over bare shoulders. We don't fool each other a bit. Ironically, that's a basis for respect.

"But I grow inattentive. Let me introduce my a.s.sociates. Vic Manuel Collins and Queen Irene."

The male is closer. We shake hands and I can tell his gaudy decorations mask the texture of a standard gray ditto. As for his t.i.tle; "Vic" used to mean something. But the term has grown sw.a.n.k and overused among the idle rich, most of whom were never venture capitalists, or anything useful at all.

Just one of the umber-colored females steps forward, acknowledging my presence but offering no smile, nor a hand to shake. "Queen" is another modern ambiguity. I'll wait and see if my suspicions are verified.

Gineen offers seats, plush and body-conforming. A candy-striped servdit -- one-half scale -- offers refreshments. Being gray, I can taste-sample a powdery Zairian truffle that explodes into aromatic dust at the back of my throat. A gift for Albert to remember when I inload. Still, Wammaker is showing off, being lavish with visiting dupies. Part of her appeal, I suppose.

Sitting now, I can see past the shoulder of the umber rox who is jacked in, fixing her attention on a pict-screen. It shows a large room where still more red dittos come and go rapidly -- all of them copies of the same basic person-image, though some are scaled way down to one-third size or less. At least a dozen hover around a single figure in the middle, hard to make out amid the throng. There's a lot of machinery -- kiln apparatus and life-support gear.

"I asked you here, Mr. Morris, to discuss a little matter of technology and industrial espionage."

I turn back to Wammaker.

"Maestra? I specialize in tracking people -- both clay and flesh -- mostly to uncover copyright violations and -- "

My host lifts a hand. "We suspect certain technological innovations have been h.o.a.rded. Significant Significant breakthroughs, that could threaten to make copyright meaningless, are being monopolized clandestinely." breakthroughs, that could threaten to make copyright meaningless, are being monopolized clandestinely."

"I see. That sounds illegal."

"It most certainly would be. Technologies are most perilous when exploited in secret."

My thoughts churn. It may be illegal, but why tell me me? I'm no cop or tech-sleuth.

"Who do you suspect of h.o.a.rding?"

"Universal Kilns Incorporated."

Blinking, I hardly know where to begin.

"But ... they pioneered the field of soulistics."

"I do know that, Mr. Morris." Her smile is indulgent.

"They also benefit most from an open and orderly market."

"Naturally. In fact, UK continues to engage in normal commercial research, coming up with gradual improvements in the copiers they sell. Technical details about these improvements can can be kept confidential temporarily, till patents are filed. Even so, they have a legal duty to warn people if some major innovation threatens to fundamentally alter our culture, or economy, or world." be kept confidential temporarily, till patents are filed. Even so, they have a legal duty to warn people if some major innovation threatens to fundamentally alter our culture, or economy, or world."

"Fundamentally alter"? Creepy words that make me curious as h.e.l.l. And yet, one fact is paramount -- I shouldn't be holding this conversation.

"That may be, Maestra. But right now I have to tell you -- "

The plaid-skinned male interrupts with a voice that's rather deep for such a wiry frame.

"We've been tracking leaked information from inside those s.h.i.+ny domes at UK. They're up to something, possibly a big change in the way people make and operate golems."

Curiosity gets the better of me. "What sort of change?"

Vic Collins takes a wry expression on his garishly cross-shatched face. "Can you guess, Mr. Morris? What do you you figure might transform the way folks use this modern convenience?" figure might transform the way folks use this modern convenience?"

"I ... can think of several possibilities, but -- "

"Please. Stretch yourself. Give us an example or two."

Our eyes meet and I wonder, What's he up to? What's he up to?

Some people are known for imprinting imaginative grays, capable of creative thinking. Is that what all this is about? A test of rapid reasoning, outside my organic brain? If so, I'm game.

"Well ... suppose people could somehow absorb each other's each other's memories. Instead of just imprinting and inloading between different versions of yourself, you'd be able to swap days, weeks, or even a lifetime of knowledge and experience with someone else. I guess it could wind up being like telepathy, allowing greater mutual understanding ... the gift of seeing ourselves as others see us. It is an old dream that's -- " memories. Instead of just imprinting and inloading between different versions of yourself, you'd be able to swap days, weeks, or even a lifetime of knowledge and experience with someone else. I guess it could wind up being like telepathy, allowing greater mutual understanding ... the gift of seeing ourselves as others see us. It is an old dream that's -- "

" -- also quite impossible," the dark red womandit cuts in. "Each human's cerebral Standing Wave is unique, its hyperfractal complexity beyond all digital modeling. Only the same neural template that created a particular duplicate wave can later reabsorb that copy. A rox can only go home to its own rig."

Of course that's common knowledge. Still, I'm disappointed. The dream of perfect human understanding is hard to give up.

"Go on, please," Gineen Wammaker urges in a soft voice. "Try again, Albert."

"Um. Well, for years folks have wished for a way to imprint at long at long range. range. To sit at home and copy your Standing Wave into a ditto blank that's far away. Today, both bodies have to lie right next to each other, linked with giant cryo-cables. Something about noise-to-bandwidth ratios ... " To sit at home and copy your Standing Wave into a ditto blank that's far away. Today, both bodies have to lie right next to each other, linked with giant cryo-cables. Something about noise-to-bandwidth ratios ... "

"Yes, that's a common complaint," Gineen muses. "Say you have urgent, hands-on business to do in Australia. Your quickest bet is to make a fresh ditto, pack it into an express mail rocket, and hope it splashes gently on target. Even the quickest round trip, returning the ditto's skull packed in ice, can take all day. How much better if you could just transmit your standing wave over a photonic cable, imprint a blank that's already on the scene, look around a bit, then zip the altered wave right back again!"

"It sounds like teleportation. You could go anywhere -- even the Moon -- almost instantly ... a.s.suming you s.h.i.+pped some blanks there in advance. But is this really needed? We already have robotic telepresence over the Net -- "

Queen Irene laughs.

"Telepresence! Using goggles to peer through a faraway set of tin-eyes? Manipulating a clanking machine to walk around for you? Even with full retinal and tactile feedback, that hardly qualifies as hands-on. hands-on. And speed-of-light delays are frightful." And speed-of-light delays are frightful."

This "queen" and her sarcasm are starting to bug me.

"Is that it? Has Universal Kilns achieved long-range imprinting? The airlines will hate it. And what's left of the unions."

h.e.l.l, I can see aspects that I'd I'd loathe, too. Maybe you could teleport anywhere in minutes. But cities would lose their individual charm. Instead of local experts and artisans holding sway, each town would wind up having the same waiters, janitors, hairdressers, and so on. The best of every skill and profession, duplicated a gazillion-fold and spread all over the world. No one else would have a job! loathe, too. Maybe you could teleport anywhere in minutes. But cities would lose their individual charm. Instead of local experts and artisans holding sway, each town would wind up having the same waiters, janitors, hairdressers, and so on. The best of every skill and profession, duplicated a gazillion-fold and spread all over the world. No one else would have a job!

(Envision some New York super private eye opening a branch office here, stocking it daily with flawless gray duplicates, raking in fat fees while he sits in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. I'd have to go on the purple wage. Get some time-killing hobby. Or go back to school. Ack.) Obviously, the maestra doesn't fear compet.i.tion.

"If only that were the breakthrough at hand," she comments wistfully. "Tele-dittoing would open up major business opportunities for me, globally. Alas, that's not the innovation we're talking about. Or not the most worrisome one. Do try again."

d.a.m.n, what a b.i.t.c.h. Riddles are just the sort of delicious torment Gineen Wammaker specializes in. Even knowing this, I'm tempted to keep showing off.

But first there's a matter of professional ethics to settle.

"Look, I really think I ought to inform you that -- "

"Lifespan," says Vic Collins.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What if a ditto body" -- he gestures at his own -- "could be made to last more than a day? Possibly much much more." more."

Pause. Ponder it. This possibility hadn't occurred to me.

I choose words carefully. "The ... whole basis of kilning -- the reason it's practical -- is that a golembody carries all of its own energy, right from the start."

"Stored as super molecules in a clay-colloidal substrate. Yes, go on."

"So there's no need to imitate the complexity complexity of real life. Ingestion, digestion, circulation, metabolism, waste removal, and all that. Science is centuries away from duplicating what evolution took a billion years to create -- the subtle repair systems, the redundancy and durability of genuine organic ... " of real life. Ingestion, digestion, circulation, metabolism, waste removal, and all that. Science is centuries away from duplicating what evolution took a billion years to create -- the subtle repair systems, the redundancy and durability of genuine organic ... "

"Nothing like that is required for longer duration," answers Collins. "Just a way to recharge recharge the supermolecules in each pseudocell, restoring enough energy for another day ... then another, and so on." the supermolecules in each pseudocell, restoring enough energy for another day ... then another, and so on."

Reluctantly, I nod. Clara said that military dittos come packed with fuel implants, letting a few versions last several days. But that's still living off storage. Recharging Recharging would be quite another matter. A breakthrough, all right. would be quite another matter. A breakthrough, all right.

"How many times ... how long can a ditto ... ?"

"Be renewed? Well, it depends on wear and tear. As you say, even high-priced blanks have little self-repair capability. Entropy grinds down the unwary. But the chief short-term problem -- how to keep a roxbody going one more day at a time -- may be solved."

"A dubious solution," mutters the umber-colored Queen Irene. "Long-lasting dittos could diverge from their human prototype, making it harder to inload memories. Goals may wander. They might even start caring more about their own survival than how to serve the continuity being that created them."

I blink, confused by her terminology. Continuity being? Continuity being?

Glancing left, I see her identical sisdit, who remains jacked into a remote terminal, staring at a flatvid screen. Portrayed there, I glimpse over a dozen interchangeable workers, all the same unique crimson shade, swarming around a huge, pale figure, like worker bees jostling around -- Ah. I get it. Queen Queen Irene. Pallie told me about this, taking dittoing to its next logical stage. Still, witnessing it makes me shudder. Irene. Pallie told me about this, taking dittoing to its next logical stage. Still, witnessing it makes me shudder.

"There could be other repercussions," Vic Collins adds. "The whole social contract may be upended, if our suspicions are correct."

"That's what we want you you to investigate, Mr. Morris," Gineen Wammaker concludes. to investigate, Mr. Morris," Gineen Wammaker concludes.