Kiln People

“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?”

Ru

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. Ru

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 i

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. Ru

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 -

20

Too Much Reality

Suburbia.

Man, what a wasteland.

Half an hour from Ritu Maharal’s place, taking the east ribbonway out of town, we got snagged by a guide beam that took over the Volvo, slaving its engine, rolling us along at a “maxyficient” crawl through a zone of high-density traffic. Cyclists sped past us for much of the way, given priority by computers that prudishly favor real human muscle power over mere dittos in a car.

Beyond and below the ribbonway, a series of ’burbs flowed by, each one garish in its own colorful architectural vogue — from gingerbread castles to Twentieth-Century Kitsch. Village rivalry helps distract people from two generations of high unemployment, so locals and their dittos toil like maniacs to create lavish showpieces, often focusing on an ethnic theme — the hometown pride of some immigrant community that long ago dropped in to join a cultural bouillabaisse.

Some liken Skyroad Ten’s elevated carbonite ribbon to some exponentiated version of It’s a Small World, stretching for more than a hundred kilometers. Globalization never ended human cultural diversity, but it did transform ethnicity into another hobby. Another way for people to find value in themselves, when only the genuinely talented can get authentic jobs. Hey, everyone knows it’s phony, like the purple wage. But it beats the alternatives — like boredom, poverty, and realwar.

I felt relieved when we finally made it past the final city greenbelt, plunging into the natural, bone-dry air of actual countryside. Ritu’s gray didn’t talk much. She must have been in a mood when she imprinted. Hardly surprising, with her father’s corpse not even cool yet. Anyway, this trip hadn’t been her idea.

To make conversation, I asked her about Vic Aeneas Kaolin.

Ritu had known the tycoon ever since her father joined Universal Kilns, twenty-six years ago. As a girl she used to see the mogul often, until he went hermit, one of the first aristos to stop meeting people in the flesh. Even close friends hadn’t seen the man in person for a decade. Nor did most people care. Why should it matter? The Vic still kept appointments, attended parties, even played golf. And those platinum dittos of his were so good they might as well be real.