Kiln People

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 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-fashioned monogamy. But what does that mean nowadays? If a husband sends a ditto to fool around while he’s busy at work, does that constitute fantasy, flirtation, or outright infidelity? If a wife rents a little whitey to get through a lonely afternoon, is that prostitution, 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 pass disease. It lets you rationalize, too. Some partners draw the line at inloading memories after a dittosex 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.

Sca

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 chores, 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 hell with all this. I’m going to the beach!

7

Price of Perfection

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, of all things! Sending and receiving straight from her clay brain into the Net — direct linkage, digital to neuroanalog — 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 fashion trend, this ditto avoids the stodgy old standard colors that were prescribed during the first generation of kilning.

His skin is 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 shirt 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 flashing green eyes give away her i

“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 gratitude 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 associates. 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 title; “Vic” used to mean something. But the term has grown swank 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 i

“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? I’m no cop or tech-sleuth.

“Who do you suspect of hoarding?”

“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 be kept confidential temporarily, till patents are filed. Even so, they have a legal duty to warn people if some major i