Kiln People

“Which war?” a voice buzzes, silicon-based, not clay. Specifics are needed. “Five major matches and ninety-seven minor league events are currently in progress around the globe.”

Ah. So who is Clara fighting, this week? I should pay closer attention to the standings. If this were a sports bar, the contest would be on a big screen, twenty-four hours.

“Um, try the combat range nearest town.”

“The Jesse Helms International Combat Range lies two hundred and fifty-four kilometers south by southeast. This week, the Helms Range is proud to host a return match between the Pacific Ecological Zone of the United States of America and the Indonesian Reforestation Consortium. At stake are iceberg harvesting rights in the Antarctic—”

“That’s it. How’s the PEZ team doing?”

A holo image spreads across the table, zooming toward sunburned mountainy terrain demarcated by sharp boundaries. Outside, beyond a palm-treed resort oasis, lies a protected landscape of desert mesas. Inside: a pocked and tormented patch of Mother Gaia that’s been sacrificed for the sake of the rest. A vast cousin of the Rainbow Lounge, where human drives are cha

“Pacifican forces made significant territorial advances during Monday’s initial action. Casualties were low. But IRC tribunes assessed a number of penalties that may cancel out these gains …”

Sparkles flash before me as the POV drops closer to Earth. Sparkles that seem rather gay-looking, till you recognize rocket-artillery barrages and fierce laser strikes. Clara works in a realm of awful killing machines that could wreak horror if they ever spilled beyond the world’s combat ranges. I’m torn between zooming toward the front lines or swerving to that tree-lined oasis, at the border. Only -

— someone barges suddenly through the wispy privacy screen, blocking half the holo image.

“So, it is you.” A figure stands before me, tall and snake-ski

It’s the gladiator I saw just minutes ago in the Grudge Pit, exulting over a steaming victim. He looms closer, purple hands still swathed in wet clay grue, like some brutal potter.

“How’d you get out of the river?” he demands.

All at once, I realize it’s the rowdy who blocked my way last night, on Odeon Square! Only that had been his archie back when I was green, trying desperately to escape Beta’s yellowdits.

“River?” Let’s play i

His fighter-ditto isn’t made for subtle expressions. The face goes rigid as he realizes what he just gave away. Then he shrugs, deciding not to care what his words reveal.

“You remember me, all right,” he growls. “I saw you jump in. And I know you made it back home to dump.”

Know? How could he know? Never mind. Modern wisdom says never to be surprised if hidden knowledge leaks. Over the long term, no secret endures.

Let’s see if he appreciates sarcasm.

“A golem walking the length of a river! Well, goodness. Anyone who accomplished something like that should be the talk of the town! Maybe you should try jumping in yourself sometime.”

The suggestion doesn’t sit well.

“I kept your damn arm. Baked it hard. Want it back?”

I can’t help smiling as I recall his stu

“Keep it. Make a nice urn.”

He scowls. “Stand up.”

Instead, I yawn and stretch, both posturing and buying time. Courage is conditional. If this body of mine were made for partying, I just might try to slab and spin this guy, for the hell of it. realAlbert, with plenty to live for, would flee such a mad fool without shame. My options are murkier. I’m gray and an orphan, with no chance of continuity but some puzzles I’d like to solve in my remaining hours. All told, I’d rather management came to shoo him off. Alas, not a single red Irene is in sight.

“I said, get up!” Bully-boy growls, preparing to strike.

“Do I get choice of weapons?” I ask abruptly.

Hesitation. He can’t just cut me to bits when I’ve made it a matter of honor. Duels have rules, y’know. And people are watching.

“Sure. After you.” He gestures toward the Grudge Pit, insisting that I lead the way.

I need an out before we get there. There are a few tools in my pocket — a small cutter and a cyberscope — but he won’t make the same mistake as last night, letting me strike up close, by surprise.

Where the hell are my hosts? If I had any idea they were so lax, I’d have made that break earlier! Hit the street. Maybe head for Pal’s. Advise Albert to avoid the maestra in future, like a plague.

We weave past tables, most of them aglow with shimmering bolos, lighting garish faces. No one looks familiar in the young crowd. Anyway, this character is probably part of the in-group. Flexing my knees a bit lower with each step, I think-prep an enzyme rush while slowing the pace, as if suddenly reluctant.

As I hoped, my nemesis plants a beefy hand in my back. Gives a push.

“Go on! The armory’s just ahea—”

I won’t chance it against his hyped-up reflexes. Instead of whirling at him from a fake stumble, I leap sideways and up, landing on a nearby table, kicking aside glasses to slip between the projected holos of two female dancers, rubbing their hips in erotic rhythm.

I think he yells, but there’s so much noise from upset clients — they reach for me, so I jump again!

Like a pip, shot from between the gyrating dancers, I fly from that table to another, landing this time amid a swirling maelstrom of jagged virtual scythes, spi

Of course the light storm blinds me, too. I can barely glimpse my next target, a table where a gently spi

— but a sudden force knocks the rickety platform, spoiling my launch. I strike the next table edge-on, rolling in pain amid chairs, kicking feet and broken bottles.

Blows buffet my left side, driving a groan. My tormentor, or an irritated customer? Rather than look, I scuttle like a crab while groping in a pants pocket for my cutter — too short-range to serve as much of a weapon.

Uh-oh. Boots ahead. Many. He’s called friends. They’re bending and peering under tables. In moments -

My hand falls on the base of this table, held to the floor by three heavy bolts.

Cut them? Why not? Here goes -

The table wobbles … tips …

Grab it. Now surge upward!

They jump back in alarm. It’s not much of a weapon, but with the holo still shining I appear to be brandishing more than a bitty cocktail table! Writhing images extend another two meters, like shining snakes. A flail made of burning light.

Just light, yet they cringe. Imprinted with barely altered caveman souls, they can’t help seeing a flaming torch. Soon I’m circled by a zone of respect, empty out to the holo’s reach. And now, some spectator voices cheer for me.

I spot the punk, with pals, all wearing studded black as if they invented the look. Pathetic.

They clench and snarl. In bare moments, rational evaluation will win out, overcoming cave reflexes. They’ll charge through the cool light. But hemmed by onlookers, what can I …

All at once the tenor of sound shifts. The thundering dance music vanishes. Angry shouts are damped. Past the sucking whistle of my hyper-breathing, an amplified voice penetrates.

“ditMorris, if you please …”

Swerving again, I feint at the bravos. They retreat, perhaps for the last time as their eyes narrow angrily.