"Kiln People" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brin David)

13 Doing Their Ditto Work

Unconsciousness can be disturbing to a realperson.

For a ditto, it’s like death. And wakening is akin to being born again.

Where am I?

A sideways glance tells me I’m still in Irene’s hive. Across a wide chamber, I glimpse the huge pale figure of her archetype body — the queen — tended by more than a dozen reddish mini-copies. Full-sized versions come and go swiftly on errands. Not one says a word. No one has to.

In bleary contemplation, I envision an atom’s core and its surrounding fog of virtual particles. Irene-duplicates keep emanating from the maroon-colored mass to perform missions for the hive. Others — aged and experienced — spiral in bearing the modern nectar: knowledge to accumulate and share with more copies. And at the center, a realperson whose role it is to absorb and redistribute that knowledge, using imitation bodies to do everything else.

I’ve got to admit, Irene is impressive. Her self is very large.

Come on, Albert, focus.

How long was I out? Feels like moments. They were going to repair me … fix the awful damage inflicted by those angry gladiators in the Rainbow Lounge.

Did it work? There’s no pain, but that means nothing.

Arms and hands all seem to work. Clasping my side now … my leg.

In place of gaping wounds, I feel lumpy ridges, like hard scar tissue. Beneath, large areas feel numb, senseless. But all limbs flex and stretch satisfactorily. Splendid work, for a quick splice and patch job.

But then, if anyone would have advanced repair technology, you’d expect it to be Queen Irene.

Sitting up, I find I’m clothed in generous gray cloth.

“How do you feel?”

It’s the high-quality Irene — dyed from a gray blank — standing alongside her associate, the male golem with plaid skin. Vic Collins.

“Surprisingly good. What time is it?”

“Almost two-thirty.”

“Huh. That didn’t take long.”

“We’ve automated the repair process considerably. Without much help from Universal Kilns, I might add.”

“So you suspect them of suppressing this technology, too?”

“As you can imagine, the company prefers that people buy lots of new blanks. Of course, fixing damaged dittos would be economical, ecological, merciful—”

“Does this relate to your other concern? A breakthrough in extending ditto lifespans.”

Vic Collins nods. “They are linked. You can hardly expect UK to be eager about sharing technologies that undercut their market. But the law says they must patent and publish advances or else lose them.”

Hence the eagerness of this small consortium to do a little quasi-legal espionage. If they can get the goods on a suppressed or hoarded technology, the Whistle-blower Prize could be substantial. Up to thirty percent of the resulting patents. In this case, it could make them tycoons. I’m tempted to pursue the topic, but time can press when your remaining span on Earth is measured in hours. Unlike Irene, I have no rig to return home to. Not if I keep the deal we’ve made.

“Speaking of UK,” I prompt.

“Yes, we should be going, if you feel ready.”

I hop off the table. Except for the unpleasant feeling of numbness under my scars, things appear to be okay. “Did you get the stuff?”

“We gathered the supplies and information you require in order to penetrate Universal Kilns.”

“Not penetrate. I agreed to scout for you, in a strictly legal manner.”

“Forgive my poor choice of words. Please come this way.”

There’s no pain. Still, I limp a bit while following Irene and Collins out the rear of the Rainbow Building. A silent ocher driver waits in the sheltered alley, holding the door of a van with opaque windows. I pause, wanting to get a few matters clear before entering.

“You still haven’t explained exactly what I’ll be looking for.”

“We’ll brief you along the way. There are important matters we hope you’ll uncover with your renowned investigative prowess.”

“I’ll do my best” — then I reiterate for the spool recorder inside me — “within the law.”

“Naturally, ditMorris. We would not ask you to do anything illegal.”

Right, I think, trying to penetrate his gaze. But it’s futile. Eyes made of clay aren’t windows to the soul. It’s still a matter of debate whether there’s any “soul” inside of creatures like us at all.

Entering the van, I find the fourth member of our party, smiling with a celebrated mixture of distance and seductiveness, crossing snow white legs that glisten with their own luster beneath sheer, extravagant silk.

“Greetings, Mr. Morris,” murmurs the voluptuous pleasure-ditto.

“Maestra,” I reply, wondering.

Why would Gineen Wammaker dispatch a top-of-the-line pearl model to accompany us? A simple gray should suffice, to hear my report. Or why send a rox at all? Any useful information can be sent by Web.

My grays carry a good semblance of normal male reaction sets. So her art affects me — both attracting and repelling at once, beckoning some of the more sick-hostile corners of sexuality. Her famed, perversely alluring specialty.

Like any decent adult, I can quash such reactions. (Especially by thinking about honest, self-respecting Clara.) Surely Wammaker knows this, so the aim can’t be to influence me.

So why is she here? Especially as a pearl … a creature of profuse sensuality … unless this mission represents another chance for her to enjoy some depraved bliss?

My worries, already verging on paranoia, bloom anew.

“Let’s go,” she tells the driver. Gineen clearly doesn’t mind that I stare. Perhaps she even knows what I’m thinking.

I’m wishing that I had a better class of clientele.