Kiln People Part 17

"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 pet.i.tion, demanding that Bickson offer terms and cut PEZ losses before their armed force is completely annihilated.

"But a Gla.s.shouse 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 fas.h.i.+onable but doomed cyber and nanotech fads, zeroing instead on the virgin field of neuro-ceramics. After Jefty Annonas cracked the mysterious floating wonder of the Soul Standing Wave -- more intricate than any genome -- Maharal joined a start-up company led by the greatest Vic of our time, Aeneas Kaolin.

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, pus.h.i.+ng 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. I thought. But then, it's not every day you lose a close friend and your a.s.sistant loses a father. But then, it's not every day you lose a close friend and your a.s.sistant 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, pa.s.sing 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 announce myself.

"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, s.h.i.+fting 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 shadow could be made out, moving furtively on the other side. 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 ... " " ... now where would Betty have hidden ... "

Creepiness p.r.i.c.kled my spine. I touched one of the doors. The gla.s.s 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.

I spoke louder. "h.e.l.lo, Ritu?"

Inside lay Yosil Maharal's home office, featuring a desk and bookshelf covered with old-fas.h.i.+oned papertomes and lasersheet folios. One shelf of a display case held awards and honors. Others displayed strange trophies -- like an array of mounted hands, hands, ranging widely in size and coloration. Some were sliced open to show metal parts, relics of a time when dittoclay had to be slathered over robot frames, when clanking duplicates were techno-playthings for the rich, at once both crude and awe-inspiring, enabling just an elite to divide their lives and be in two places at the same time. ranging widely in size and coloration. Some were sliced open to show metal parts, relics of a time when dittoclay had to be slathered over robot frames, when clanking duplicates were techno-playthings for the rich, at once both crude and awe-inspiring, enabling just an elite to divide their lives and be in two places at the same time.

An era when dittos were called "deputies," and those who could afford them seemed ordained to have much bigger lives than the rest of humankind. Before Aeneas Kaolin gave self-copying to the ma.s.ses.

It was quite a display. But right then my chief concern lay in the part of the room I couldn't see, far from the window, steeped in shadows.

"Lights on," I tried from the doorway. But the house computer was voice-keyed, barring unknown guests from even courtesy control. Yosil was some host.

I could could try transmitting the command through Nell, a.s.serting my investigation contract with Maharal's daughter and heir. But the chain of handshakes and probate haggles could take minutes, distracting me the whole time. try transmitting the command through Nell, a.s.serting my investigation contract with Maharal's daughter and heir. But the chain of handshakes and probate haggles could take minutes, distracting me the whole time.

No doubt a conventional light switch lay just yonder, within easy reach ... and reach of some lurker-in-the-dark, armed with any weapon my eager imagination could provide.

Was I being paranoid? Fine.

"Ritu, if that's you, just tell me to come in ... or to wait outside."

I heard a soft sound, within. Not breathing, but another rustle. I felt tension beyond the door. Something like coiled energy.

"Is that you, ditAlbert?"

The voice came from upstairs, behind me. Ritu, calling down, without a hint of guile.

"Yeah! It's me," I answered without turning. "Did you ... do you have other company?"

Through the frosted gla.s.s, I spied another shudder. This time a straightening, perhaps signaling resignation. I backed away several steps across the atrium, giving leeway to whatever might emerge.

I also eyed escape paths, just in case.

"What did you say?" Ritu shouted again from above. Ritu shouted again from above. "I didn't expect you for an hour. Can you wait?" "I didn't expect you for an hour. Can you wait?"

A silhouette crossed the closed half of the glazed double door. Tall, angular ... and gray -- it drew closer.

For an instant, I thought I had it! A furtive gray, in this house? Who else could it be but the ghost? Maharal's ghost! Maharal's ghost! The one that didn't want to spend its last moments in a lab, being dissected for trace memories. It would be a shambling wraith by now, persisting by sheer will power, burning its final reserve of The one that didn't want to spend its last moments in a lab, being dissected for trace memories. It would be a shambling wraith by now, persisting by sheer will power, burning its final reserve of elan vital elan vital before melting away. before melting away.

I readied to pounce, demanding answers. Like what happened to my own ditto! The one I sent to the mansion this morn -- -- then blinked in surprise. The figure that emerged wasn't wasn't Maharal's ghost. Not even gray, strictly speaking. Maharal's ghost. Not even gray, strictly speaking.

A gleaming platinum stepped under the speckled light. The golem-sigil on its brow shone like a jewel.

"Vic Kaolin," I said.

"Yes," the ditto nodded, covering its agitation with pugnacity. "And who might you you be? What business do you have in this house?" be? What business do you have in this house?"

Surprised, I raised a s.p.a.ckled eyebrow.

"Why, the job you hired me to do, sir."

That wasn't strictly true. I wanted to probe this ditto's level of ignorance. His glossy expression froze, transforming rapidly from pugnacious to guarded.

"Ah ... yes. Albert. Albert. It's good to see you again." It's good to see you again."

Despite its lame effort at a recovery, this was clearly a different ditKaolin than the one I met early this morning, as dawn broke over the shattered windows of the Teller Building. Nor did it share any recent memories with the one who phoned me at home around noon, hectoring me while I imprinted the ebony. This one didn't remember me at all.

Well, in itself, that meant little. It could have been imprinted hours before all that. But then, why pretend pretend to know me? Why not just admit ignorance? He could send a query to his rig. Get an update from the real Kaolin. to know me? Why not just admit ignorance? He could send a query to his rig. Get an update from the real Kaolin.

Here's a life lesson -- don't embarra.s.s the mighty. Let 'em save face. Always give them an out.

I pointed into the home office of Yosil Maharal. "Did you find anything useful?"

The guarded expression deepened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you're here for the same reason I am, right? Looking for clues. Something to explain why your friend kept skipping town, evading the all-seeing World Eye for weeks at a stretch. And especially what he was doing last night, racing across the desert, careening over highway viaducts."

Before he could answer, Ritu called down again.

"Albert? Who are you talking to?" ditKaolin's dark eyes met mine. Following my adage, I gave him that out. ditKaolin's dark eyes met mine. Following my adage, I gave him that out.

"I met a s.h.i.+ny new Aeneas, coming up the walk!" I shouted up the stairs. "We entered together."

The platinum ditto nodded. Acknowledging a debt. He would have preferred going unnoticed, but my cover story would do.

"Oh Aeneas, I wish you wouldn't hover so! I'm all right, really." She sounded exasperated. She sounded exasperated. "But as long as you're here, would you show Albert around?" "But as long as you're here, would you show Albert around?"

"Of course, dear," ditKaolin answered, gazing briefly upstairs. "Take your time."

When he faced me again, there was no trace of agitation, or pugnacity. Only serene calm.

"What were we discussing?" he asked.

Crum! I thought. I thought. You'd think a rich b.a.s.t.a.r.d could order up ditto blanks that concentrate better. You'd think a rich b.a.s.t.a.r.d could order up ditto blanks that concentrate better.

Aloud, I prompted, "Clues, sir."

"Ah, yes. Clues. I looked for some, but -- " The platinum head shook, left and right. "Maybe a professional like you can do better."

Despite everything, Kaolin is only guessing that I'm a ditective, I thought. I thought. Why doesn't he just ask? Why doesn't he just ask?

"After you." I gestured politely, insisting he reenter the office ahead of me.

He turned, spoke a command, and light filled the room. So Maharal must have given voice authorization to his boss. Or else -- I felt another vague suspicion simmer in the part of my skull where I chain that crazy but creative beast, paranoia. Keeping the ditto in sight, never turning completely away from him, I looked over a display case while tapping cipher-code with my teeth.

Nell. Verify Kaolin sent this dit. Confirm it's legit.

She acknowledged the work order, flas.h.i.+ng in my left eye. But even with my priority as the real guy, this query could take time, leaving me wondering about a possibility.

Dr. Maharal had been an expert in duplication tech, and a gifted hobbyist at the arcane art of disguise. He also seemed blithe about mere inconveniences like the law. With his Universal Kilns access, he could borrow all sorts of templates ... including possibly that of Aeneas Kaolin.

So, could this platinum be another Maharal ghost, masquerading as the Vic?

But that didn't make sense. realMaharal's corpse had been cold for nearly a day, but the platinum looked much newer. No way this could be Ritu's daddit, in disguise.

Well, organic imagination doesn't have to make sense, I recalled. I recalled. Nor must paranoia be reasonable. It's a beast who barks at nothing ... till the day it's right. Nor must paranoia be reasonable. It's a beast who barks at nothing ... till the day it's right.

There was a simple way to verify the platinum's ident.i.ty. As a real person, I could turn and demand its pellet ... at the cost of revealing my own costume ruse. I chose against it. Nell should answer soon, anyway. So I fixed my attention on Maharal's home.

The office showed signs of recent amateur tampering. Table legs were shoved out of old carpet impressions. The contents of book and display cases had all s.h.i.+fted, disturbing dust layers as someone groped all over, perhaps looking for hidden panels.

I learned a lot just by glancing at the lasersheet folios. They were barely touched, so Kaolin must not have been looking for purloined data or software.

Then what?

And why was he trying to search all by himself? He has security people. He can hire forensic experts or even rent a downtime police unit.

At first I thought the problem might be Ritu, standing up to her boss and barring Kaolin access to her father's home. That could explain today's furtive entry -- trying to search the place without alerting her -- which implied some need to keep her in the dark.

Except that Ritu's easygoing att.i.tude just moments ago, giving us both leave to look around, didn't fit the image of a rift between Kaolin and Maharal's daughter. At least not an obvious one.

Glancing at the Vic, I saw he had regained his famed, sphinxlike composure. Dark eyes tracked me, perhaps still annoyed that I had found him here. Yet he appeared willing to make the best of things. Supervising an expert hireling at work, that was more his style.

There were pictures on the walls, both inside the office and in the hall beyond. A fraction showed Yosil posing with people I didn't recognize -- I used my archaic but serviceable eye-implant to take iris-snaps of some, for Nell to identify. But most of the framed images showed a younger Ritu at various events like graduation, a swimming compet.i.tion, riding a horse, and so on.

Maybe I should have given the place a major workover -- a chemsift for substances on the International Danger List would take just minutes with a good scanner. But whatever Maharal was up to, I suspected that it wouldn't show in obvious ways.

An inertial transect might be more revealing. Strolling from room to room, I opened closets and cupboards, peering into each one long enough to freeze a complete perspective-set, transmitting each one to Nell, and then moving to the next. She wouldn't need color, just multiple angles and position stamps, down to half a centimeter, using surveying principles George Was.h.i.+ngton would have understood. Any secret chambers or compartments should appear in the resulting geodesic.

Kaolin expressed approval. But again, if he wanted this kind of work done, why not hire a whole survey team and do a thorough job?

Perhaps the matter was so sensitive, he could only trust his own duplicates.

If so, my presence must be cause for mixed feelings. I had stopped working for Kaolin when Yosil Maharal's body was found crumpled in his car -- when the case switched from suspected kidnapping of a valued employee to a daughter's vague misgivings about murder.

I made a mental note to ask Ritu about her father's relations.h.i.+p with the UK chief. If it was was murder, I could imagine scenarios putting the Vic on a shortlist of suspects. murder, I could imagine scenarios putting the Vic on a shortlist of suspects.

Take what happened to Maharal's ghost -- and my gray -- a few hours ago. Might Kaolin have arranged for them both to vanish on his estate? Maybe the gray sniffed too close to some dire truth. Maybe the ghost had good reason to flee.

Soon the first-floor transect was complete. Nell's preliminary a.n.a.lysis showed no secret chambers. At least nothing bigger than a breadslice. But she did cite one anomaly.

Two photographs were missing. They had been hanging near the bottom of the staircase when I first arrived. Now, my home computer reported they were gone! Their shadows still showed up by infrared, a bit cooler than the surrounding wall.

I turned in search of Vic Kaolin ... and spotted him emerging from the lavatory. Plumbing sounds gurgled in the background. He just disposed of something by flus.h.i.+ng it away! He just disposed of something by flus.h.i.+ng it away! The platinum ditto looked back at me, a portrait of innocence, and I cursed under my breath. The platinum ditto looked back at me, a portrait of innocence, and I cursed under my breath.

If I had come as an ebony specialist, tuned and equipped for close forensic site a.n.a.lysis, I might have watched him with one eye literally in the back of my head. Now, there seemed little I could do about it. Quizzing Kaolin would only alienate him without explaining the photos.

Better to wait, I decided. Let him think I didn't notice. Maybe ask Ritu about the pictures later.

I went out to my Volvo, opened the trunk, and fetched a thumper with seismic pickups. Lugging the equipment back up the steps, I planted detectors all around the house. In moments I would know if there were secret chambers underground. Unlikely, but worth checking out.

While waiting for the data to come in, I poked around the recycling unit out back, with its separate slots for metals, plastics, mulchable organics, and electronics. And clay. The bins should all have been empty, since Yosil Maharal spent the last few weeks away from home. But the telltales showed some ma.s.s in the golem-disposal unit. Enough for one full-size humanoid form.

I opened the access panel -- only to witness a dim gray figure sag before the sudden onslaught of air, rapidly finis.h.i.+ng its collapse to slurry.

Smell can be a powerful sense. From vapors wafting off the slumping ma.s.s, I could tell much. It died well before expiration ... and no more than an hour ago. It died well before expiration ... and no more than an hour ago. Acting quickly, I reached inside to grope through where the skull had been, feeling through dissolving fibrous matter till I snagged a small, hard object. The ID pellet. Later, in private, I might give it a quick scan and find out if this meant anything ... or if a neighbor had simply deposited an excess ditto in the Maharal Dumpster to avoid recycling fees. Acting quickly, I reached inside to grope through where the skull had been, feeling through dissolving fibrous matter till I snagged a small, hard object. The ID pellet. Later, in private, I might give it a quick scan and find out if this meant anything ... or if a neighbor had simply deposited an excess ditto in the Maharal Dumpster to avoid recycling fees.