Kiln People

“A long time?” I checked my watch. Less than an hour had passed since Blane’s purples attacked.

“… and found it was taken over, like the others! They chased me … I climbed in this tube … sealed the top … I figured—”

“Hold it! ‘Taken over,’ you say? You mean just now, right? Our raid—”

The face was slumping rapidly. Sounds escaping from its mouth grew steadily harder to understand. Less like words than gurgling rattles.

“I thought at first … you might be responsible. After hounding me for years … But now I can tell … you’re clueless … as usual … Morrissss.”

I wasn’t standing there, breathing nasty fumes, in order to be insulted. “Well, clueless or not, I’ve put this operation of yours out of business. And I’ll shut down others—”

“Too late!” The yellow fell into hacking coughs of bitter laughter. “They’ve already been taken over … by—”

I stepped closer, nearly gagging on decay reeks that spilled from cracks in the golem’s skin. It must be hours past deadline, holding together by willpower alone.

“Taken over, you say? By whom? Another copyright racketeer? Give me a name!”

Gri

“Go to Alpha … Tell Betzalel to protect the emet!”

“What? Go to who?”

“The source! Tell Ri—”

Before he could say more, something snapped. One of Beta’s legs, I guess. The smug expression vanished, replaced on that skeletal face by a look of sudden dread. For the span of an instant, I imagined I could see the Soul Standing Wave through Beta’s filmy clay eyes.

Moaning, the ditto dropped from sight …

… followed by a splash. As fumes gusted, I offered a feeble benediction …

“ ’Bye.”

… and jumped back down to the alley. One thing I didn’t need right then was to let another of Beta’s perverse little paranoia games into my head! Anyway, the brief encounter was recorded by the implant in my eye. My oh-so-analytical ebony golem could ponder the words later.

A job like mine requires focus. And ability to judge what’s relevant.

So I dismissed the incident from mind.

Until next time, I thought.

Back on Alameda, I decided not to wait for Blane to finish in the basement. Let him d-mail me a report. This job was done. My end of it, at least.

I was walking back to my car when a feminine voice spoke up from behind me.

“Mr. Morris?”

For a brief instant I envisioned Gineen Wammaker, the real one, having rushed downtown to congratulate me. Yeah, I know. Fat chance.

I turned to see a brunette. Taller than the maestra, less voluptuous, with a narrower face and somewhat higher voice. Still very much worth looking at. Her skin was one of the ten thousand shades of authentic human-brown.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said.

She flashed a card covered with splotchy fractals that automatically engaged the optics in my left eye, but the patterns were too complex or newfangled for my obsolete image system to deconvolute. Irritated, I bit an incisor to frame-store the image. Nell could solve the puzzle later.

“And what can I do for you, Miss?” Maybe she was a news sniffer, or a thrill perv.

“First, let me congratulate you on this morning’s success. You have a sheen of celebrity, Mr. Morris.”

“My fifteen seconds,” I answered automatically.

“Oh, more than that, I think. Your skills had already come to our attention, before this coup. Might I prevail on you to spare a moment? Someone wants to meet you.”

She gestured down the street a short distance, where a fat limousine was parked. An expensive-looking Yugo.

I considered. The maestra expected me to call with final assurance that third-hand Wammaker toys would stop flooding the market. But hell, I’m human. Inside, I felt as if I had already reported to one Gineen — the white ditto. Why should anyone have to go through that twice? Illogical, I know. But Miss Fractal gave me an excuse to put off the delectably unpleasant duty.

I shrugged. “Why not?”

She smiled and took my arm, in the old thirties style, while I wondered what she wanted. Some press flacks love to sniff detectives after a showy bust — though reporters seldom drive Yugos.

The limo’s door hissed open and the sill lowered, so I barely had to duck my head entering. It was dim inside. And lavish. Bioluminescent cressets and real wood moldings. Pseudoflesh cushions beckoned, wriggling voluptuously, like welcoming laps. Crystal decanters and goblets glittered in the bar. Fancy. Schmancy.

And there, sitting cross-legged on the backseat like he owned the place, was a pale gray golem.

It’s a bit odd to see a rox riding in style with an attractive rig assistant, but how better to show off your wealth? In fact, my host looked as if he’d been born gray. Silver hair and skin like metal, all angles and high cheekbones … not gray, I realized, but a kind of platinum.

He looks familiar. I tried sending a snap-image to Nell, but the limo was shielded. The platinum golem smiled, as if he knew exactly what had happened. I took small comfort from the fact that this creature had no legal rights.

So what? It could still buy and sell you in a second, I told myself, taking the opposite seat while Miss Fractal alighted primly onto a living cushion between us. Opening the limo’s cooler, she took out a bottle of Tuborg and poured me a glass. Basic hospitality. My daytime brew is a matter of public profile. No points for research.

“Mr. Morris, let me present Vic Aeneas Kaolin.”

I managed to quash any outward surprise. No wonder he looked familiar! As one of the founders of Universal Kilns, Kaolin was one of the richest men along the entire Pacific coast. Strictly speaking, the “Vic” honorific — like Mister — should only be used with the real person, the original who can vote. But I sure wasn’t about to stand on protocol if this fellow wants his elegant drone to be called Vic … or Lord Poobah, for that matter.

“A pleasure to meet you, Vic Kaolin. Is there a service I can offer?”

The metal-shiny ditto returned a thin smile, nodding through a window at the contract cleaners, still sweeping up battle remnants.

“Congratulations on your success cornering a wily foe, Mr. Morris. Though I’m not sure about the endgame. All this violence seems unsubtle. Extravagant.”

Did Kaolin own the blemished Teller Building? Wouldn’t a trillionaire have more important chores for his duplicates than hand-delivering a damage lien to a private eye?

“I just performed the investigation,” I said. “Enforcement was up to the Labor Subcontractors Association.”

The young woman commented. “LSA wants to be seen acting decisively about the problem of ditnapping and copyright piracy—”

She stopped when the Kaolin copy raised a hand with skin texture nearly as supple as realflesh, including simulated veins and tendons. “Enforcement isn’t an issue. I believe the matter we want to discuss is an investigation,” he said quietly.

I wondered — surely Kaolin had employees and retainers to handle security matters. Hiring an outsider suggested something out of the ordinary. “Then you didn’t simply rush down here on impulse, because of all this.” I motioned at the untidy scene outside.

“Of course not,” said the young assistant. “We’ve been discussing you for some time.”

“We have?” Kaolin’s ditto blinked, then shook its silvery head. “No matter. Are you interested, Mr. Morris?”

“Naturally.”

“Good. Then you’ll accompany us now.” He raised a hand again, brooking no argument. “Since you’re here in person, I’ll pay your top consulting rate until you decide to accept or refuse the case. Under a confidentiality seal, agreed?”

“Agreed.”