David Brin - Kiln People

“An ideal solution,” it suggested, “would be if you came aboard as a Kaolin household retainer.”

Not ideal to me, I thought. Fealty oaths are a big fad among aristos, who like the feudal image of lords and faithful vassals. But I wasn’t about to let go of my individuality. “An even better solution would be for you to take the word of a professional who lives by his reputation. It’s a better guarantee than any oath.”

I was only making a counterproposal — part of a negotiation that would finish with Kaolin’s original. But the gray ditto surprised me with a firm nod.

“Then that is all we’ll require, Mr. Morris. Anyway, we appear to have arrived.”

I turned to see the limo approach a tall fence made of blue metal that shimmered with an ionization aura. Beyond the guarded gate, campus grounds extended to three huge bubbledomes, gleaming mirrorlike under the sun. The centermost reared over twenty stories high. No logos or company emblems were needed. Everybody knew this landmark — world headquarters of Universal Kilns.

Another giveaway was the crowd of demonstrators, shouting and waving banners at vehicles streaming through the main entrance — a protest that had waxed and waned for over thirty years. In addition to standard placards, a few aimed holo projectors, splatting car windows (and a few unwary faces) with colorfully irate 3-D comments. Naturally, Kaolin’s limousine filtered out such intrusions. But I mused over a few painted posters:

There Is Only

One Creator!

Brown Is Beautiful

Man-made “Life” Mocks

Heaven and Nature!

And, of course -

One Person:

Just One Soul

Naturally, these protestors were all archies, continuing a struggle that had been lost in both the courts and the marketplace before many of them were born. Yet they persisted, denouncing what they saw as technological arrogation of God’s prerogatives — condemning the daily creation of manufactured beings. Millions of disposable people.

At first, looking out the right side, I saw only True Lifers clamoring and carrying on. Then I realized, several of them were shouting epithets at another crowd — a younger, hipper-looking throng on the left side of the entryway, equipped with more holo throwers and fewer placards. The second group had a different message:

End the Slavery of Clay People!

“Synthetic” Is a Social Slur

UK Serves the “Real” Ruling Class!

Rights for Roxes!

All Thinking Beings Have Souls

“Mancies,” said Kaolin in a low voice, glancing at this second crowd, which included lots of bright-skinned dittos. Unlike the True Lifers, who were a familiar sight, this Emancipation movement had burgeoned much more recently — a crusade that still had many people scratching their heads.

The two protest groups despised each other. But they agreed on hatred of Universal Kilns. I wondered, would they put aside their animus and join forces if they knew the company chairman, Vic Aeneas Kaolin himself, was passing nearby?

Well, not “himself.” But close enough.

As if he knew my thoughts, he chuckled. “If these were my only enemies, I wouldn’t have a care in the world. Moralists make a lot of noise … and sometimes mail a pathetic bomb or two … but they are generally predictable and easy to sidetrack. I get a lot more aggravation from practical men.”

Which particular opponents did he mean? Kiln technology disrupted so many fundamentals of the old way of life, I still puzzle why it wasn’t throttled in the crib. Beyond ravaging every labor union and throwing millions out of work, roxing almost triggered a dozen wars that only quelled after intense diplomacy by some first-rate world leaders.

And some people say there’s no such thing as progress? Oh, there’s progress, all right. If you can handle it.

Security scanners cleared the limo and we left the demonstrators behind, passing a main entrance where buses delivered ditto workers, discharging them from leathery racks. But most arriving employees were organic humans who would make their copies onsite. Quite a few archies approached on bicycles, glowing from the sweaty workout, looking forward to a steam and massage before getting to work. Companies like UK take good care of their people. There are benefits to giving a fealty oath.

We cruised beyond the main portal, then on past sheltered loading docks, shipping machinery like freezers, imprinting units, and kilns. Most of the ditto blanks that people buy are made elsewhere, but I did glimpse some specialty items as we swept by — rigid figures dimly visible inside translucent packing crates, some of them uncannily tall, or gangly, or shaped like animals out of some legend. Not everyone can handle being imprinted into a non-standard human shape, but I hear it’s a growing fashion among trendsetters.

The limo approached a formal entrance, clearly meant for VIP arrivals. Liveried servitors with emerald skin, the same color as their uniforms, rushed up to open our doors and we emerged under a canopy of artificial trees. Flowers dropped fragrant petals in rainbow profusion, like soft rain, dissolving into sweet, pigmented vapor before touching ground.

Looking around, I saw no sign of my Volvo. It must have peeled off to a more plebeian parking place. The dented fenders wouldn’t suit this ambiance.

“So, where to now?” I asked the gray Kaolin replica. “I’ll need to meet your original and finalize—”

His blank expression stopped me.

Ritu explained. “I thought you knew. Vic Kaolin doesn’t see visitors in person anymore. He conducts all business by facsimile.”

I had heard. He wasn’t the only rich hermit to retreat into a sanitized sanctum, dealing with the world via electronic or pseudoflesh deputies. But in most cases it was affectation, a pose — a way to limit access — with exceptions made for important matters. The disappearance of a renowned scientist might qualify.

I started to say this, then saw that Ritu no longer paid attention. Her pale eyes shifted to stare past my right shoulder, both irises flaring while her chin quivered in shock. At almost the same moment, Kaolin’s copy let out a reflex gasp.

Ritu vented a single word as I swiveled.

“Daddit!”

A clay person approached us from behind the floral arbor — with skin a much darker shade of gray than Kaolin’s elegant platinum-colored unit. This ditto was embossed to resemble a slender man about sixty, walking with a faint limp that seemed more habit than a current affliction. The face, narrow and angular, bore some resemblance to Ritu, especially when it shaped a wan smile.

The paper garments were taped in several places, but a gleaming Universal Kilns ID badge said YOSIL MAHARAL.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

Ritu didn’t leap into its arms. Her use of the paternal-mimetic greeting meant the Maharal household must have kept real and simulated distinct, even in private. Still, her voice quavered as she grabbed a dark gray hand.

“We were so worried. I’m glad you’re all right!”

At least we can guess he was all right some time in the last twenty-four hours, I observed quietly, noting the torn garments and cracked pseudoskin. Expiration wasn’t many hours away. Flakes of some outer covering, perhaps remnants of a disguise, peeled off corners of ditMaharal’s face. The ditto’s voice conveyed both tenderness and fatigue.

“I’m sorry to fret you, Pup,” it said to Ritu, then turned to Kaolin. “And you, old friend. I never meant to upset you both.”

“What’s going on, Yosil? Where are you?”

“I just had to get away for a while and work things out. Project Zoroaster and its implications …” ditMaharal shook its head. “Anyway, I’m feeling better. I should have a good handle on things in a few days.”