Страница 37 из 126
Of course I could mention another difference between me and Ritu’s late father.
When he tried this subterfuge, it was aimed at concealing some dark secret. But my reasons were simpler.
I was doing it for love.
Well, it felt that way at the time. Ebony-me even complained about the impulsiveness of my decision to go on this trip in person.
“You’re acting on emotion. Clara left an ivory in her fridge. That should slake your animal drives till the weekend when she returns.”
“An ivory’s not the same. Anyway, Maharal’s cabin happens to be near the battlefield! I can’t pass up this opportunity to drop by and surprise her.”
“Then send your own ivory. There’s no need to go in person.”
I didn’t answer. The ebony was just being snippy. He knew that Clara and I can take or leave casual dittosex, even with occasional outsiders, because it doesn’t matter. No more than a passing fantasy.
Because it’s no real substitute for the real thing. Not to us.
“This isn’t a productive use of time,” said my hyperlogical doppelganger, trying a different tack while I tossed some clothes in a bag.
“That’s what I have you for,” I retorted. “Be productive! Can I assume our other cases are in hand?”
“They are.” The glossy black version of me nodded. “But what happens when I expire, less than eighteen hours from now?”
“Stick your head in the icer, of course. I imprinted another jet, along with a gray and a green, in case you need ’em to take over.”
Ebony-me sighed, as usual regarding my real self as childish and irresponsible.
“None of the new dittos will have my recent memories. Continuity will be broken.”
“Then thaw your replacement an hour early and update him.”
“With words? You know how inefficient—”
“Nell will help. Anyway, I should be back before Wednesday’s ebony fades. Then I’ll inload his memories, and yours, from the freezer.”
“So you say now. But you’ve been distracted before and let brains spoil in the fridge. Anyway, suppose you get killed wearing that foolish disguise?”
Long fingers, the color of space, reached out to pinch my faux-gray skin.
“I’ll take every precaution not to let that happen,” I promised, pulling away and avoiding those dark eyes. It’s tough lying to yourself, especially when you’re standing right in front of you.
“Be sure and do that,” ebony muttered. “I’ll make a lousy ghost.”
Heading to Maharal’s place, I shut off the Volvo’s hypercautious autopilot and drove manually. Weaving through traffic helped ease my nerves … though some green peditstrians yelled obscenely when I swerved past. All right, I could drive better. Blame my disguise for influencing me subconsciously. Or it could have been the war news.
“… recent battlefield reversals and heavy casualties have pushed retreating PEZ-USA forces into a pocket, with their backs against the Cordillera del Muerte Mountains. Although the position seems strong for defensive tactics, oddsmakers have already begun offering early buyouts of final outcome wagers, assuming the battle to be lost.
“If so, and if the disputed icebergs go to Indonesia, this debacle will cast doubt on President Bickson’s plan for staying off the SouthWestern Eco-Toxic Aquifer Plume.
“Faced with SWETAP-related backlash from voters, congressional leaders have already started gathering e-signatures for a demarchy petition, demanding that Bickson offer terms and cut PEZ losses before their armed force is completely a
“But a Glasshouse spokesgolem ruled out that option, insisting that hope remains for victory on the battlefield. ‘It’s all or nothing,’ the Bicksondit said. ‘When it comes to fighting SWETAP, half a berg is the same as none at all.’ ”
Cursing, I told the radio to shut up. Instead, I asked Nell for a reminder-summary of Yosil Maharal’s personal background.
Despite having twelve whole hours to research, she hadn’t been able to dig up much about his childhood before arriving as a refugee from one of those nasty little ethnic wars they used to have over in South Asia, after the turn of the century.
Adopted by distant relatives, the shy boy thrived on schoolwork, showing little interest in social affairs. Later, as a budding scientist, Yosil ignored the fashionable but doomed cyber and nanotech fads, zeroing instead on the virgin field of neuro-ceramics. After Jefty A
He never married. Maharal’s gene-merging and nurturing agreement with Ritu’s mother originally featured some twisty responsibility diagrams, at one point including a gay couple, an estate management bank, and an heirless cousin. But all of those adjunct- and demi-parents cashed out several years before Mom died in a copter crash, when Ritu was twelve.
Yikes. And now Daddy’s punched his clock, too. Life ain’t fair. Poor kid.
I felt a little guilty, pushing her to take this trip. But I had a hunch about this “cabin” of her father’s, and Ritu’s help may be vital. Anyway, if her gray found the journey traumatic, realRitu could just toss away the head without inloading. No memory, no foul.
Our ancestors, who suffered far more than we do, never had that option.
A black, all-terrain limousine stood out front of the address Ritu gave me. I sent a scan of the plates to Nell, who replied that it belonged to Universal Kilns.
So. Good of Kaolin to lend her a limo, I thought. But then, it’s not every day you lose a close friend and your assistant loses a father.
I parked my battered car behind the gleaming Yugo and headed for the house — a larger-than-average veridian home, without much yard but covered by slanting solarium panes to trap each ray of sunlight, dark plates for photovoltaic energy and green for drip-treating household waste. There were enough of the gleaming sewage cells to serve an active family, but just a few had active algae cultures. In fact, most looked completely unused.
A bachelor pad, then. And the bachelor spent long periods away from home.
I mounted fourteen steps, passing between decorative loquots that deserved better care. Pausing next to the poor things, I felt tempted to pull out my cutter and prune some crossing branches. After all, I was early.
Then I noticed the front door stood ajar.
Well, I was expected. Still, there was some ambiguity. As a licensed private detective and a quasi-agent of the civil posse, I couldn’t just walk in. By law, I had to a
“Ritu? It’s me, Albert.” I left out the grammatically correct ditto modifier, though I came disguised as a golem. Most people are sloppy about it, anyway.
The atrium floor was speckled from an active-element mosaic skylight, shifting random colors and playing bright-dark tricks on the eye. Ahead, stairs climbed around two landings before reaching the upper story. Glancing left, I saw an open-plan sitting room, furnished in a rather fogeyish cyberpunk style.
A faint clatter — more like a hurried rustle — came from my right, beyond a set of double doors, carved wood with frosted panels. No lights shone within that room, but a shadow could be made out, moving furtively on the other side.
A murmur … a few words that I couldn’t hear at all well, sounded like ” … now where would Betty have hidden …”
Creepiness prickled my spine. I touched one of the doors. The glass was both rough and cool — perfect sensations that reminded me of the chief thing that I must not forget:
You’re real. So be careful.
As if I needed prompting! Fey suspicions thrummed my Standing Wave, coursing back and forth between the only organic heart and brain I’ll ever have. As a ditto, I might go barging into the next room, just to see what’s what. But as an organic heir of paranoid cavemen, I settled for giving one door a shove, then staying well back from the threshold as it swung open.