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

19 Fakery’s Bakery

Tuesday afternoon fades and a vast industrial complex prepares to change shifts. The entry/exit portal throngs with moving bipeds, all of them human in one fashion or another.

In olden times, the whole population of a factory — thousands of workers — would swing into motion at the blowing of a whistle, half of them heading home, tired from eight or ten — or even twelve — hours work, while equal numbers shuffled in for their turn at the machines, transforming sweat and skill and irreplaceable human lifespan into the wealth of nations.

Today’s flow is gentler. A few hundred archie employees, many of them wearing exercise clothes, chat amiably as they leave, heading for scooters and bikes, while a more numerous and colorful host of paper-clad dittos arrives by dinobuses, trooping in the opposite direction.

Some elderly dittos are also departing, homeward bound to inload a day’s memories. But most stay, working on till it’s time to slip into the recycling vat — armies of bright orange drones, laboring with focus and without resentment, because some other self will enjoy fat wages and stock options. It can be kind of spooky if you stop and really think about it. No wonder I never had a factory job. Wrong personality for it. Way wrong.

Even the golem entrance is decorated in eye-soothing tones, with sensoresonant music playing in the background as I wait in line to sign in. There’s also a faint vibration, coming through the bottoms of my feet. Somewhere lower down, beneath the grass-covered slopes, giant machines are mixing pre-energized clay, threading it with patented fibers tuned to vibrate at the ultra-complex rhythms of a plucked soul, then kneading and molding it all into dolls that will rise, walk, and talk like real people.

Like me.

Should this feel like coming home? My present, pre-animated body was made here, mere days ago, before being shipped to Albert’s storage cooler. If today’s snooping expedition takes me down to that factory realm, will I recognize my mother?

Oh, quit it, Al.

I’m me, whether gray or brown. Grasshopper or ant. The only practical difference is how polite I’ve got to be.

That … and expendability. In a sense, I’m freer when I’m gray. I can take risks.

Like the one I’m about to face in moments, when I try to sign in. Will UK security be as lax as the maestra predicts?

I almost hope not. If I’m stopped — or even if the guards ask inconvenient questions — I’ll just turn around and leave! Apologize to Gineen and her pals. Send my half-fee home to Nell and spend the rest of my life doing … what? Forbidden by contract from inloading memories, or even seeing my rig again, I guess I’d find some other way to pass time. Maybe take in a play. Or stand on a street corner entertaining parents and kids with sleight-of-hand tricks. I haven’t done that in a while.

Or maybe I’ll visit Pal. Find out what he was so excited about this morning.

All right, I admit it. I’d be disappointed to come so far, and just get turned away. My demilife is targeted now. I have a mission, a purpose, to help my clients find out if Universal Kilns is violating the disclosure law. That seems a worthwhile goal, and well paid.

Approaching the entry kiosk, I find I’m actually nervous, hoping this will work.

Honestly? It was fun for couple of hours — scurrying through outdoor and indoor crowds, ducking through cramped niches, doing quick dye jobs and rapid clothing changes, vanishing and reappearing to fool the omnipresent cameras. In fact, it was today’s highlight so far. Doing something you’re good at — what else can make you feel more genuinely human?

All right, it’s my turn. Here goes.

The big yellow golem on duty at the entry kiosk wears an expression of such ennui, I wonder if it’s feigned. Even a ditto tuned for vigilance can get bored, I guess. But maybe he’s been bribed. Wammaker and Collins never told me the details, hence my unease …

A beam reaches out to stroke the pellet on my brow. The guard glances at me, then at a screen. His jaw twitches, opening a bit to subvocalize a brief comment, inaudible to me but not to the infrasonic pickup embedded in his throat.

Two items spit from a slot in the kiosk, a small visitor’s badge and a slip of paper — a map featuring green arrows, suggesting where I should go. The arrows point up, toward the executive suites, where a different Albert Morris copy had an appointment, hours ago. That me never showed up, but the failure isn’t any of my business. My interests lie elsewhere.

I mutter reflexive thanks to the guard — unneeded politeness that betrays both my upbringing and my age — then I head for the down escalator.

Whose fault is it if the Universal Kilns mainframe gets two of us mixed up, confusing this me with a completely different me?

Normally, at this point in a mission, I’d try to report in. Find a public phone jack — I see one right across the lobby — and dump an encrypted copy of the report I’ve been dictating almost nonstop since this morning. Let Nell know where I am. Let Albert in on what’s been done.

But that’s contractually forbidden this time. Gineen Wammaker doesn’t even want me to call her. Nothing that might be traced to Studio Neo or her strange comrades. One result is a thwarted feeling as I crave to spill the contents of my built-in recorder, like a penitent’s impulse to confess.

Well, add it to all the other irritating traits of this oddball mission. I’m riding the down escalator now, dropping into a huge anthill complex underneath the glittering corporate domes, worrying about the next phase — looking for clues that Vic Aeneas Kaolin is illegally withholding scientific breakthroughs.

All right, let’s suppose — as the maestra and Queen Irene suspect — that Universal Kilns has solved a nagging problem of our age, how to transmit the Standing Wave of human consciousness across distances greater than a meter. Will there be clues or signs that a layman like me might recognize? Pairs of giant antennas, facing each other across a cavernous chamber? Hyperconducting terrahertz cables, thick as a tree trunk, linking a human original to the distant lump of clay she plans to animate?

Or might UK executives already have perfected the technology? Could they be using it right now, in secret, to “beam” copies of themselves all over the planet?

How about the other breakthroughs that Wammaker and Irene and Collins suspect? Ditto life extension? Ditto-to-ditto copying? Modern wish-fantasies, but what if they’re about to come true?

My employers want me to seek evidence, but the other half of my job is just as urgent … do nothing illegal. Whatever I happen to glimpse by wandering around can be blamed on poor UK security. But I won’t pick any locks for Gineen and her friends.

I could lose my license.

Damn. Something’s been bugging me all afternoon. Like an itch that won’t localize. Normally I’d follow the intuition, but there’s so much that’s unconventional about this job — the non-disclosure contract, the ban on inloading — plus the fact that I’m working for the maestra, which I swore I’d never do again. Add that violent episode back at the Rainbow Lounge and now this tightrope act, trying to a spy on a major corporation without breaking laws. Any of that would make a guy feel creepy.

So it’s strangely easy to dismiss my uneasy feelings. Attribute them to this assortment of known irritations … not something even worse, glimmering on the edge of awareness …

Here’s were I should get off. First sublevel. RESEARCH DIVISION, it says in bright letters over a friendly, campuslike entry portal. Beyond another simple security kiosk I glimpse high-class gray and black dittos — even some high-sensory whites — moving about with lively animation, frenetically busy and apparently enjoying it. Scientists and techies generally love copying, since it lets them run experiments around the clock. Like creating whole armies of yourself to raid Nature’s storehouse, day and night, grabbing every grain of data while your real brain stays well rested for theorizing.

Irene said it should be easy to get past security here, too. Yosil Maharal was head of Research and an Albert gray was hired to investigate the poor man’s death, so these folks should expect a visit. Heck, even if they turn me away, I can peer around from the entrance -

Now what are you doing?

Crum, I didn’t get off!

I stayed on the moving way, letting it carry me right past the entry portal, downward past Sublevel One, heading deeper underground!

This isn’t according to plan …

But it kind of makes sense, right? I think I see what unconscious impulse made me keep going. Won’t the Research Department have its own back routes to the deeper caverns, where large-scale experiments can run? Techies hate security, so those back routes will be less formal, less guarded than the central shaft. In fact, I’ll bet there are no guard-kiosks below at all. Anyway, my cover story will seem more plausible if I wander in through the industrial plant, having gotten “lost” somewhere along the way.

Sounds good. But does it explain why my legs locked moments ago, preventing me from getting off? Dammit. Dittotech would be a whole lot more convenient and rational if soul-copying didn’t require dragging your whole subconscious along, every time.

More basement levels rise slowly past while I grapple with the question. A wide portal labeled TESTING offers a glimpse into a kind of hell — warrens of experimental chambers where new golem models undergo torturous ordeals, like crash dummies of old, but aware, able to report the effects of every mangling or indignity. And none of the deliberate mutilations can be called immoral, since you’ll find eager volunteers for anything nowadays.

Yay, diversity.

Still riding the down escalator, I find that I’m rubbing my side — the long bulge of numb scar tissue covering that wound I got during the fight at the Rainbow Lounge. There’s no pain, yet I find it increasingly bothersome. Is the irritation psychocermaic?

I buy grays that are hyper-tuned for concentration, compelled to recite and analyze while roving in the field. Beyond that, all of them partake in Al’s quirky subconscious — the part of me that worries, correlates, then worries more. Looking back, it now seems awfully strange how that fellow zeroed in on me at Irene’s club … coincidentally the same punk that Monday’s green ran into last night, on Odeon Square, before taking that walk under the river.

And strange that Queen Irene — eager to see me and with many selves to spare — left me waiting in that violent club, where trouble found me.

Was it meant to find me?

I’ve dropped down to the first industrial level. Sprawling around me now, huge stainless steel tanks array into the distance like regiments of stout, shining giants.

The air fills with pungent, earthy aromas of peptide-soaked clay. Only a fraction comes from new material. The rest gets recycled, delivered every day in great slurry tubes from collection points all over the city — a frothy pureé that only hours ago made up individual humanoid beings, walking and talking, pursuing ambitions and countless distinctive yearnings. Now their physical substance reunites, blending together again in these tanks … the ultimate democratic commingling.

Mixing paddles stir as sparkling powders rain into the concoction, seeding nano-coalescent sites that will grow into rox cells, pre-energized for one frenetic day of mayfly activity. My limbs twitch. I can’t help picturing the entropy steadily seeping into my own cells as they rapidly use up the élan vital they absorbed in these same tanks.

In a few hours that depletion will lead to the pang. A wish to return, like some ageing salmon, to the one who imprinted me. For inloading, a ditto’s only chance at an afterlife, before this body rejoins the everlasting river of recycled clay.

Only there will be no inloading this time. No continuity. Not for me.

The floor rises past me, leading to another subterranean level, bigger and noisier than the last. Those big tanks that I saw — now overhead — funnel their frothy brews to titanic, hissing machines that groan and turn relentlessly. Robot tractors shove huge spools along ceiling tracks, delivering acres of finely woven mesh that shimmers in ways that no natural eye can bear to look upon — the diffraction spectrum of raw soul-stuff. Or the nearest approximation devised by science.

Mesh and prepared clay merge under enormous rotary presses, kneading and forming a pasty union, squeezing out surplus liquid, then popping yet another doughy humanoid shape onto rolling conveyors. On and on they come, pre-dyed to signify cost and built-in abilities. Some roll onward for custom feature installation. Other basic models, state-subsidized, are so cheap that even the poor can afford to replicate, living larger lives than their ancestors could have imagined. Across the globe, similar factories replenish half the ongoing human population, dispatching short-term bodies to a billion home coolers, copiers, and kilns.

A miracle stops being remarkable when you give it to everybody.

Watching titanic presses spit out ditto blanks — hundreds per minute — I’m hit by an absurdity.

Irene and Gineen say I should look for hidden industrial breakthroughs here at Universal Kilns. But that can’t be the real reason they sent me!

Think, Albert. UK has competitors. Tetragram Limited. Megillar-Ahima’az of Yemen. Fabrique Chelm. Companies who licensed Aeneas Kaolin’s original patents, till they expired. Wouldn’t they care about hidden innovations, more than the maestra and her friends? With greater resources, they could find out dozens of ways … like offering top jobs to UK employees. How could Universal Kilns hope to conceal ground-breaking discoveries like those Vic Collins spoke about?

Yes, evil thrives on secrecy. It’s what drives Albert on. Expose villainy. Find truth. Yadda. But is that what I’m doing, now? Hell, nobody can run a really big conspiracy, nowadays, when whistle-blower prizes tempt your henchmen with cash and celebrity status. Countless smalltime scams still flourish, keeping me in business. But could anyone hide secrets as major as my employers described?

Why would anyone bother?

Suddenly, it’s plain what all their talk about “hidden breakthroughs” was about. They were appealing to my vanity! Distracting me with hints of exciting new technology. With intellectual puzzles. And with their grating, obnoxious personalities. All manner of irritating digressions, so my general unease could be explained by excitement, or nerves, or personal dislike.

The floor rises past me again, bringing a new layer of the factory to view. At first it looks like more of the same vast assembly line, but these presses are more specialized. Blue police models flop limply onto a conveyor belt, pre-equipped with Peace Talons and loudspeakers. Another grunting unit pops out oversize designs, big-muscled and armor-skinned, dyed in military blur-camouflage. They remind me of Clara, off fighting her war in the desert.

That’s an ache I must quash. She’ll never concern you again, dittoboy. Concentrate on your own problems. Like why did the maestra and her friends hire you?

Not to penetrate Universal Kilns, clearly. That was pathetically easy. (Albert should offer Aeneas Kaolin a spec proposal to upgrade security here!) Wammaker and company didn’t have to pay a guy like me triple fees just to come and have a look around. Collins and Irene could have sent anyone. They could have come themselves.

No, I already did the hard part — the part they hired me for — before ever reaching the front gate. Dodging all the public cameras out there, changing my appearance a dozen times, skillfully muddying my trail so no one would connect me to my employers.

Could they have a reason, much bigger than the one they gave me?

Glancing at the nearest wall, I spot a recorder-cam. An absorber, the cheapest kind, laying one quickscan frame into a polymer cube every few seconds till it’s full and needs replacing monthly. I must’ve passed a hundred since arriving. And they read my ID pellet at the entry kiosk. So, there’s been a record from the moment I arrived. If anyone cares to check, they’ll know an Albert Morris gray wandered around. But UK can’t complain if I stay legal. So long as all I do is get “lost” and look around.

But what if I do something bad? Maybe without meaning to …

Damn! What is this thing?

A small bug — like some kind of gnat — flutters before me. It dodges a swat, darting toward my face. I can’t afford distractions, so I use a surge-energy burst to grab the thing, midair, crumpling it in my hand.

Where was I? Wondering if Gineen and the others had some hidden plan. Like maybe for something else to happen while I’m in Universal Kilns? The moving way takes me down to another level where yet more machines rumble. Again, I’m rubbing my injury … now wondering if the glassy bulge in my side may contain more than scar tissue.

Could that be why the thug-gladiator attacked me, in the Rainbow Lounge? No coincidence, perhaps it was all arranged … to make me willing to accept a blank interval during “repairs,” when actually -

Another damned bug flutters before me, then makes a kamikaze dive for my face!

Another muscle surge and it crackles in my hand. Can’t let pests distract me. What I need is some way to check these crazy suspicions.

Hopping off the moving way, I jog alongside a conveyor belt hauling assorted fresh industrial dittos. Gangly window washers, long-armed fruitpickers, sleek aqua farmers, and burly construction helpers, all made for jobs where mechanization is too inflexible or costly, as inert as dolls, lacking any human spirit to drive them. I may find what I need just ahead, where these specialized blanks get wrapped in cocoons of fluffy-hard airgel CeramWrap for shipment.

There! A worker in UK orange stands near the conveyor, watching a vidboard covered with flashing symbols. Quality Control, says a logo stamped in his broad back. Striding forward, I wear a friendly grin while swatting yet another of those pesky, irritating gnat things. (A local industrial infestation?)

“Hello there!”

“Can I help you, sir?” he inquires, puzzled. The few grays who come down here wear UK badges.

“I’m afraid I may be lost. Is this the Research Department?”

A chuckle. “Man, you are lost! But all you have to do is get back on the way and—”

“Say, that’s a nifty diagnostic station you’ve got there,” I interrupt, trying to stay casual. “Mind if I use it on myself for a sec?”

The tech’s puzzlement turns wary. “It’s for company business.”

“Come on. It won’t cost anything but electricity.”

His imitation brows purse. “I need it whenever the system detects a flawed blank.”

“Which happens how often?” Waving off a persistent gnat, I notice that the orange guy isn’t afflicted by the buzzing things.

“Maybe once an hour, but—”

“This’ll take a minute. Come on. I’ll put in a good word for you upstairs.”

Implication? That I’m a VIP visitor. Show me courtesy and I’ll add points to his file. Shame on me for fibbing.

“Well …” he decided. “Ever used a type-eight Xaminator? I better work the controls. Stand over there. What’re we lookin’ for?”

Stepping up to a fluorescent screen, I lift my tunic showing the big scar. He stares.

“Well, look at that.” Turning curious, the tech starts readying a scan. Only now I’m distracted by two of the cursed gnat things.

What the hell are they, and why are they picking on me?

With uncanny coordination, they dive at the same instant, one for each eye. My right hand snags one, but the other feints, swerves, then streaks for my ear!

Damn, it hurts, burrowing inside!

“Give me a few secs,” the orange guy says, fiddling controls. “I’m used to inspecting raw blanks. Got to cancel interference from your imprinted soul-field.”

Slapping the side of my head … I stop when a voice abruptly explodes from within, booming like a wakened god.

“Hi, Albert. Calm down. It’s me. Pal.”

“P-Pal?”

Stunned, I lower my hand. Can the bug hear me when I speak aloud? “But what—”

“You’re in big trouble, dittolad. But I’ve got your location. I’m heading there now, with one of your greens. We’ll get you out of this mess.”

“What mess?” I demand. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“I’ll explain shortly. Just don’t do anything!”

The tech glances up from his station.

“Did you say something? We’re almost ready here.”

“I’m just getting a diagnostic scan,” I tell the bug in my ear. “Right here by one of the assembly—”

“Don’t do that!” Pal’s voice bellows. “Whatever you’re carrying may be primed to go off when you pass a security scanner.”

“But I already passed through one, at the main entrance—”

“Then a second scan may be the activation signal.”

Abruptly, it makes sense. If Gineen and Irene planted something deadly in me, they’d maximize damage by delaying ignition, either with a timer or by setting it to go off when I pass a second scan, somewhere deep inside … say upon entering the research wing, which I almost did just minutes ago.

“Stop!” I cry — as the technician pulls a switch.

… things … happening very fast …

… apply surge energy … shift subjective time … trade lifespan for rapid thoughts.

Darting aside to escape the beam, I can already tell it’s too late. The scan-tingle hits me. The bulge in my side reacts. I brace for an explosion.

“Say, you’re right!” the technician says. “There is something inside, but — where are you going?”

Running now. A blur of surge action.

It’s not a simple bomb, or I’d be a billion flaming pieces now. But something’s churning within me and I don’t like it a bit.

Pal’s bug writhes in my ear.

“Head for the loading dock!” it shouts. “We’ll meet you there.”

Ahead, beyond giant machines ship-wrapping ditto blanks in airgel cocoons, I glimpse truck headlights moving through the lowering night. Picturing the anthill mound of UK HQ, I dare hope — If I can just get outside, will that foil the maestra’s plan? Outdoor explosions do less harm.

But it’s not a bomb. I sense fizzing heat. The scan set off complex chemical reactions. Programmed synthesis, perhaps manufacturing a tailored nanoparasite or destroyer prion. Running outside might spare UK only to put the city in peril!

Pal shouts in my ear to turn left. So I do.

I can feel the wall cameras, their passive eyes recording. No time to stop and shout my innocence — I didn’t know! Only actions can speak for Albert Morris now. To keep him out of jail, I kick in my reserves.

Ahead, the loading docks. Gel-wrapped ditto blanks slide into pneumatic tubes, departing for distant customers with a sucking whoosh. Giant forklifts — huffing and puffing — haul larger models onto trucks.

“Over here!”

The yell echoes, both in my ear and across the loading bay. I spy a version of myself, dyed UK Orange, bearing a weasel-like creature on his shoulder. Both dittos bear wounds, still smoking from recent combat.

“Are we glad to see you!” shouts the four-legged mini-Pal. “We had to fight our way inside this place, past some nasty — Hey!”

No time to stop and compare notes. Running by, I share a split-second glance with my other self and recognize this morning’s greenie. Looks like I found something more interesting to do today than clean toilets. Good for you, Green.

The churning in my gut is nearing some climax, feeding my crude golem-organs to a chemical frenzy. Some hell is about to burst. I need something massive to contain it.

Shall I dive into the packaging machine? No. Airgel won’t do.

So I choose a nearby forklift instead, grunting and farting as it burns extra fuel loading big crates onto a truck. Its diplodocus-head turns, resembling the human who imprinted it.

“What can I do for you?” the low voice rumbles, till I dash under its legs. “Hey, buddy, what’re you—”

Below the tail, a repellent exhaust spills high-octane fumes, a quivering moist enzyme flatulence from the hardworking clay body. Ignoring all instinct, I plunge both arms between pseudoflesh lips, forcing the waste-sphincter apart in order to …

… in order to climb within.

The forklift bellows. I sympathize but hold on as he jumps and swerves, trying to shake me out of the worst place I’ve ever been.

To the best of my knowledge, that is. Some of my other dits may have seen worse. The ones who never made it home … though somehow I doubt it.

Worming my way deeper, I hope my built-in recorder survives. Maybe this final act of sacrifice will free Albert from blame. It’s a good thing he won’t inload any of this. I’d be traumatized for good.

The poor forklift writhes. Pulses of foul gas try to blow me out. But I hold on, punching and grabbing fierce handholds. One big contortion culminates in lancing agony as my right foot comes off! Bitten by the frantic golem.

I can’t blame him, but it only drives me deeper, holding my breath against the stench, using a final burst of emergency élan to climb the sickening cloaca, trying for its heavy center.

Meanwhile, I’m being consumed from within. Used as feedstock for some awful reaction as the fulminating contents of my midriff prepare to erupt.

Am I deep enough? Will the huge clay body contain whatever-it-is?

Man, what a day I’ve -