Kiln People

9

The Sleeper Wakes

Even in the old days it was normal to wonder, now and then, if you were real. At least it was normal for zen masters and college sophomores.

Now, the thought can strike you in the middle of a busy day. Ru

The worst part is dreaming.

Dittos hardly ever sleep. So the mere fact that you’re dreaming ought to reassure.

It ought to. But nightmares have their own logic. You can thrash in bed, worrying that you aren’t really you … but someone else just like you.

My brain still felt loggy when Ritu Maharal’s second call got me up for good. Clara would say it serves me right. “Only old-fashioned cyberfarts think they can ignore the sun.”

Easy advice, from someone in her profession. Wars are mostly scheduled, nine-to-five affairs nowadays. But in my line of work it’s easy to slip off-track. Well, four hours of rest — plus a bottle of ginger-fizzy Liquid Sleep — would have to do. Anyway, Ritu’s news had me worried.

Shambling into my office, I checked the ditto roster to see how my copies were faring. If gray number one had gone missing, some clue might be evident on the board. Or maybe another of my selves could be diverted to Kaolin Manor.

I blinked at the glowing emblems, unable to believe my eyes. All three status lights flashed amber for inaccessible/incommunicado!

“Nell, can you explain this?”

“Not completely. Gray number one vanished less than an hour ago, at the estate of Vic Aeneas Kaolin.”

“I know that already.”

“Then do you also know they just found that gray’s ID pellet lying on the ground in an off-limits area, restricted to Kaolin’s intimate servants? The Vic’s attorney wants to know what your ditto was doing there.”

“How the hell should I know?” And to think, this day began so well. “Put that aside for now. What’s going on with gray number two?”

“A coded message just came in. That gray has gone over to no-return, autonomous mode.”

I blinked in surprise.

“He did? Without consulting me?”

“It’s always been your policy to give grays this leeway.”

“Yes, but why—”

“The copy was offered a quick, profitable job with a consortium led by Gineen Wammaker. In order to avoid conflict of interest with your other cases, the investigation must take place under conditions of sequestered cognizance.”

“Under conditions of what?” I shook my head. “Oh, you mean no self-telling. I can’t inload the dit, or even find out what it does.”

This wasn’t the first time a copy of mine took a sealed assignment, heading off on its own in order to make a quick profit for the real me. I’ve been well paid for investigations that I’ll never remember, even if the customer was satisfied.

What goes through my mind, when I decide to accept such a case? Sitting here in my real body, I can’t picture making the sacrifice. But I guess something in my character makes it possible — even likely — under the right circumstances.

Just hearing about it leaves me feeling rather creepy. “That gray had better be careful,” I said in a low voice. “I don’t trust the maestra.”

“The ditto knows Wammaker can be devious. Do you want me to play back its message? Voice profiles ranged from cautious to paranoid.”

Should I find that reassuring? My grays are exceptionally good. In fact, some years ago I was invited to join a research study of people who imprint especially high-fidelity golems. Anyway, what could I do but shrug and accept the situation? If you can’t trust your own gray, who can you trust?

“All right, then tell me what happened to the green. This place is a mess. Dishes piled in the sink, trash bins full. Where’s it gone?”

In response, Nell threw a phone image on the wall. A bland version of my own face abruptly glistened like a plaster cast, stained a color reminiscent of dying chlorophyll.

“Hi me,” the visage waved jauntily against a shabby background, evidently somewhere in dittotown. “I just dictated a full report, which I’ll send in a minute. But here’s the short version.

“You blew it, Albert! Shouldn’t imprint when you’re wipe-out tired like you were this morning. You’ve always been lucky, but this time you finally made a frankie.”

The green face paused to let the news sink in, gri

“What’s it like being a mutant copy? I know you’re curious, so let me tell you. It feels downright weird. Like I’m me … and not me … at the same time. Know what I mean?

“Of course you don’t. Anyway, the crux of it is that I won’t be doing your dishes or vacuuming your house today. But not to worry! You don’t have to call the cops or a disposal service. I’m no public hazard … no crazy stuff. I just have a few interests of my own, that’s all.

“If I get a chance, I’ll send one last report before I expire. I owe my creator that much, I suppose.

“Thanks for making me. Guess I’ll see you around.”

The green ditto winked and signed off. I stared at the blank wall until Nell broke in.

“To the best of my knowledge, this is your very first Frankenstein duplicate. Shall I make an appointment for you to get a routine medical scan? Life Upkeep is having a sale on checkups this week.”

I shook my head.

“You heard him. I was tired, that’s all.”

“Then shall I put out a notice, renouncing the green’s pellet?”

“And let every sicko hunt-fetishist go gu

Could the same effect have touched the grays I imprinted this morning? They were made from more expensive blanks, and the scan times were longer. Anyway, with both of them incommunicado, what could I do but hope for the best?

There was little more to be learned from the green’s dictated report, only some colorful incidents at Moonlight Beach and that dittotown church where they repair golems — interesting and dramatic, but no new light shed.

Nell broke in. “Now that we’ve updated ditto status, there is work to do. Several ongoing cases need attention. And Ritu Maharal expects you to call back with conjectures about her father’s fatal accident.”

I nodded. There are always too many things going on to handle all by myself.

“Break out a specialist,” I ordered. “An ebony. Top of the line. I’d better imprint right away.”

“An ebony has already been prepped.”

The storage unit hissed, emitting oily fog as a fresh golem blank slid onto the warming tray, wearing a mirrorlike, glossy black sheen. More expensive than a quality gray, it came pre-tuned for intense focus, amplifying high levels of professional concentration for a full twenty-four hours — assuming that your original already has those qualities. Which may explain why you don’t see ebonies as often as sybaritic whites. A full day of intense pleasure may be as wearing to inload as a day of hard work, but a lot more people have an aptitude for pleasure.

The kiln was ready. The soul-sifter’s writhing tendrils awaited my head. But first I needed a moment to seek calm. Losing contact with two grays was bad enough, but for one of my greens to turn frankie? The unprecedented occurrence had me worried. Was I rested enough to keep it from happening again?