David Brin: Kiln People

A squadron of cleaners came next, green and pink — candy-striped models, wielding brooms and liquivacs to scour the area before rush hour brought this morning’s commuters. Expendable or not, cleaner-dits wouldn’t enter a place where fighting raged.

“Mr. Morris!”

“Sorry, Maestra,” I replied. “Can’t talk now. I’ll call when I know more.” Before she could object, I bit a molar, ending the call. My left eye cleared.

“Well?” I asked Blane.

His visor exploded with colors that I might have interpreted if I were in cyberdit form. As a mere organic, I waited.

“We’re in.”

“And the template?”

Blane grinned.

“Got it! They’re bringing her up now.”

My hopes lifted for the first time. Still, I scuttled low across the pavement to reclaim the fedora, planting its elastic armor back over my head. Anyway, Clara wouldn’t appreciate it if I lost it.

We hurried past the cleaners and up twenty steps to the main entrance. Broken bodies and bits of pseudoflesh melted into a multicolored haze, lending the battleground an eerie sense of unreality. Soon, the dead would be gone, leaving just a few bullet-spalled walls and some rapidly healing windows. And splinters from a huge door the purples blew to bits when they forced their way inside.

Newsbots swooped down, gattling us with questions. Publicity can be helpful in my line of work, but only if there’s good news to report. So I kept mum till a pair of Blane’s LSA brutes emerged from the basement, supporting a much smaller figure between them.

Slimy preserving fluid dripped from naked flesh that shone like glittering snow, completely white except where livid bruises marred her shaved head. And yet, though bald, abraded, and ditto-hued, the face and figure were unmistakable. I had just been speaking to the original. The Ice Princess. The maestra of Studio Neo — Gineen Wammaker.

Blane told his purples to rush the template to a preserva tank, so it wouldn’t expire before testifying. But the pale figure spotted me and planted her heels. The voice, though dry and tired, was still that famously sultry contralto.

“M-mister Morris … I see you’ve been spendthrift with your expense account.” She glanced at the windows, many of them shredded beyond self-repair, and the splintered front door. “Am I expected to pay for this mess?”

I learned several things from the ivory’s remark. First, it must have been snatched after Gineen Wammaker hired me, or the ditto wouldn’t know who I was.

Also, despite several days stored torturously in WD-90 solution, no amount of physical abuse could suppress the arrogant sensuality that Gineen imbued into every replica she made. Wigless, battered and dripping, this golem held herself like a goddess. And even deliverance from torment at Beta’s hands hadn’t taught her gratitude.

Well, what do you expect? I thought. Wammaker’s customers are sickies. No wonder so many of them buy Beta’s cheap bootleg copies.

Blane responded to the Wammaker replica as if she were real. Her presence was that overpowering.

“Naturally, the Labor Subcontractors Association will expect some reimbursement. We put up considerable resources to underwrite this rescue—”

“Not a rescue,” the ivory model corrected. “I have no continuity. Surely you don’t think my original is going to inload me after this experience? You’ve recovered her stolen property, that is all.”

“Beta was ditnapping your dittos off the street, using them as templates to make pirate facsimiles—”

“Violating my copyright. And you’ve put a stop to it. Fine. That’s what I pay my LSA dues for. Catching license violators. As for you, Mr. Morris — you’ll be well compensated. Just don’t pretend it’s anything heroic.”

A tremor shook the slim body. Her skin showed a skein of hairline cracks, deepening by the second. She looked up at the purples. “Well? Are you going to dip me now? Or shall we wait around till I melt?”

I had to marvel. The ditto knew it wasn’t going to be inloaded back into Gineen’s lovely head. Its life — such as it was — would end painfully while her pseudobrain was sifted for evidence. Yet she carried on with typical dignity. Typical arrogance.

Blane sent the purps on their way, hurrying their small burden past the striped cleaners, the blue-skinned cops, and remnant evaporating shreds of bodies that had been locked in furious combat only minutes before. The way his eyes tracked Wammaker’s ivory, I wondered — was Blane one of her fans? Maybe a closet renter?

But no. He snarled in disgust.

“It’s not worth it. All this expense and risk, because a prima donna won’t bother to safeguard her dits. We wouldn’t have to do any of this if they carried simple autodestructs.”

I didn’t argue. Blane is one of those people who can be completely matter-of-fact about kiln tech. He treats his own dittos like useful tools, no more. But I understood why Gineen Wammaker won’t implant her copies with remote-controlled bombs.

When I’m a ditto, I like to pretend I’m immortal. It helps me get through a drab day.

The police barriers came down just in time for rush hour as great lumbering dinobuses and spindly flywheel trollies began spilling their cargoes — gray office-golems, cheaper green and orange factory workers, swarms of candy-striped expendables, plus a sprinkling of other types. Those entering Teller Plaza gawked at the damaged walls. Grays called up their news services for summary replays of the fight. Several of them pointed at Blane and me, storing up some unusual memories to bring home to their archies, at day’s end.

The armored policewoman approached Blane with a preliminary estimate of costs and fines. Wammaker was right about dues and responsibilities. LSA would have to foot most of the bill … at least till the day we finally catch Beta and force a reckoning. When that happens, Blane can only hope that deep pockets lay somewhere along Beta’s obligation trail. Deep enough for LSA to come out ahead on punitive damages.

Blane invited me to join him in the basement, inspecting the pirate copying facility. But I’d seen the place. Just a few hours ago “I” was down there getting my ceramic hide pounded by some of Beta’s terracotta soldiers. Anyway, the LSA had a dozen or so ebony crime-scene analysts under contract who were much better equipped to handle the fine-toothed-comb stuff, using specialized senses to sift every nook and particle for clues, hoping to discover Beta’s real name and whereabouts.

As if it ever does any good, I thought, stepping outside for some fresh air. Beta is a wily son of a ditch. I’ve been hunting him for years and he always slips away.

The police weren’t much help, of course. Ditnapping and copyright violation have been civil torts ever since the Big Deregulation. It would stay a purely commercial matter, so long as Beta carefully avoided harming any real people. Which made his behavior last night puzzling. To chase my greenie into Odeon Square, firing stones from slingshots and barely missing several strolling archies — it showed something like desperation.

Outside, I waded through a hubbub of folks coming and going. All were dittos, so an archie like me had right-of-way. Anyway, with golembodies still smoldering unpleasant fumes nearby, I moved away quickly, frowning in thought.

Beta seemed upset last night. He’s captured me before, without ever interrogating so fiercely!

In fact, he usually just kills me, with no malice or hard feelings. At least to the best of my knowledge. Those times that I recovered memories.

The same distress that drove Beta’s yellows to torture my green last night also made them careless. Shortly after pummeling me, they all departed, leaving me tied up in that basement factory between two autokilns that were busily cranking out cheap Wammaker copies, imprinting their kinky-specialist personalities from that little ivory they had ditnapped. Carelessly, the yellows never even bothered to check what tools I might have tucked away under pseudoflesh! Escaping turned out to be much easier than breaking in — (too easy?) — though Beta soon recovered and gave chase.