Kiln People Part 43

I shrugged, unable to guess as the signal grew stronger. Such a long-range fix would be impossible in the city, with so many pellets all around. Here, it positively throbbed just ahead.

"Careful, this is rough country," I urged. The lower ravines lacked even moonlight. Beta let instruments take over, doing what computers and software are best at, performing simple procedures with utter precision. A minute later, amid a roar, a shuddering b.u.mp, and then a tapering sigh, we landed in a narrow canyon with the Harley's headlight s.h.i.+ning at the canted wreckage of a battered land car. Not as badly smashed as Maharal's, but trapped just as surely.

How did this happen? Could Albert be dead, after all?

I had to wait for Beta to open the canopy and exit first, waving his scanner around, then followed to verify there were no real bodies. So Albert either walked away or was taken. Good. I didn't relish burying my maker.

"Every piece of electronic apparatus is ruined. Some kind of pulse weapon could do that," Beta commented. "Best guess, almost two days ago."

"And no one spotted the car in all that time." I glanced up to see how narrow the ravine was.

"Here's the ditspare." The trunk of the wrecked auto groaned wide to reveal a small portakiln and a CeramWrap coc.o.o.n that lay split open. The golembody had never been heat-activated. Instead of dissolving, it slumped like a corroding clay figurine, cracking in the desert heat. A latent life -- a potential Albert -- who never got a chance to stand or comment sardonically on the ironies of existence.

In the skycycle's beam, I saw a deep gouge at the base of the ditto's throat. The little recitation-recorder. I give them to every gray, to narrate investigations in realtime. Someone cut it out. Only Albert would know it was there. The little recitation-recorder. I give them to every gray, to narrate investigations in realtime. Someone cut it out. Only Albert would know it was there.

Beta, using a torch to examine every inch of the pa.s.senger compartment, cursed colorfully. "Where could she have gone off to from here? Did someone pick them up? Was she trying to reach ... "

"She? There was a pa.s.senger?" There was a pa.s.senger?"

Contempt filled Beta's voice, replacing his recent cordiality. "Always two steps behind, Morris. Did you think I'd go to all this trouble just to find your missing rig?"

I thought quickly. "Maharal's daughter. She hired Albert to investigate her father's accident ... Albert must've headed out with her to look over the crash site. Or else -- "

"Go on."

"Or else to the place Maharal fled from from when he died. Some place Ritu knew about." when he died. Some place Ritu knew about."

Beta nodded. "What I can't figure is why Morris went in person. And in disguise. Did he know his house was being targeted?"

I had an idea about that, from the way Albert felt when he made me. Lonely, tired, and thinking of Clara, whose battalion waged war not too far from here.

"What do you you know of the a.s.sa.s.sins?" I asked, changing the subject. know of the a.s.sa.s.sins?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Me? Why, nothing."

You know something! I could tell. I could tell. Not the whole story, maybe. But you have suspicions. Not the whole story, maybe. But you have suspicions.

Time to tread carefully. "Tuesday, after helping Blane raid your Teller operation, I met a decaying yellow in a back-alley disposal tube. It spoke convincingly like you, claiming that a big new enemy was taking over. Then it blurted a request that I go to Betzalel go to Betzalel ... and ... and protect someone named Emmett protect someone named Emmett ... or maybe ... or maybe the emet. the emet. Can you explain what you meant?" Can you explain what you meant?"

"The yellow was desperate, Morris, if he asked you you for a favor." for a favor."

Ah, the familiar, insulting Beta. But I was playing for time, checking my surroundings in case things went abruptly sour.

"I was too exhausted to think much about it. Still, the words sounded familiar. Then I recalled. They refer to the original original Golem legend, back in the sixteenth century, when Rabbi Loew of Prague was said to have created a powerful creature out of clay in order to protect the Jews of that city from persecution. Golem legend, back in the sixteenth century, when Rabbi Loew of Prague was said to have created a powerful creature out of clay in order to protect the Jews of that city from persecution.

"The emet emet was a sacred word, either written on the creature's brow or placed in its mouth. In Hebrew, it means 'truth,' but it can represent the was a sacred word, either written on the creature's brow or placed in its mouth. In Hebrew, it means 'truth,' but it can represent the source source or wellspring -- all things arising from one root." or wellspring -- all things arising from one root."

"I went to school too, y'know," Beta stifled a yawn. "And Betzalel was another of those golem-making rabbis. So?"

"So, tell me why you're following the trail of Yosil Maharal's daughter so avidly."

He blinked. "I have reasons."

"No doubt. First I thought you meant to grab her as a template for your ditto-piracy trade. But she's no phaedom.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic vamp, like Wammaker, with an established clientele. Ritu's pretty, but physical attributes are trivial with golemtech. It's the personality -- the unique Standing Wave -- that makes one template special compared to another." I shook my head. "No, you're tracking Ritu to find the source. Her father. Her father. To find whatever secret frightened Yosil Maharal into studying the arts of deception. It's one so terrifying that he fled across the desert Monday night, fleeing something that chased and finally killed him." To find whatever secret frightened Yosil Maharal into studying the arts of deception. It's one so terrifying that he fled across the desert Monday night, fleeing something that chased and finally killed him."

Greeted by silence, I insisted. "What game are you involved in? How do you fit in between Maharal and Aeneas Kaolin -- "

Beta's golem threw back its head and laughed. "You're just fis.h.i.+ng. You really don't have a clue."

"Oh? Then please explain, great Moriarty! What can it hurt to tell me?"

He stared a moment.

"Let's make a trade. You transmit those pictures. Then I'll tell a story."

"Irene's pictures? From the Rainbow Lounge?"

"You know what pictures I mean. Dispatch them to Inspector Blane. He knows how you got 'em, from the report you just sent. Transmit and verify. Then we'll talk."

It was my turn to pause. He rescued me from that rooftop in order He rescued me from that rooftop in order to help track down realAlbert ... and thus Ritu Maharal ... and thus her to help track down realAlbert ... and thus Ritu Maharal ... and thus her father's secret hideaway father's secret hideaway.

Now he has no further use for me, except to send the pictures.

"You want me to be the one who transmits them ... for the sake of credibility."

"You have have credibility, Morris -- more than you realize. Despite ham-handed efforts to frame you, n.o.body in high places considered you a likely saboteur. The pics you found at the Rainbow will clinch it, help exonerate you -- " credibility, Morris -- more than you realize. Despite ham-handed efforts to frame you, n.o.body in high places considered you a likely saboteur. The pics you found at the Rainbow will clinch it, help exonerate you -- "

"And you!"

"So? They implicate Kaolin. But if I send them, well, who will believe an infamous ditnapper? They'll say I faked 'em."

This explained why Beta hadn't simply taken the film away from me. But his patience was wearing thin. "I know you, Morris. You think this gives you leverage. But don't press it. I have bigger concerns."

Resignation washed over me. "So, in exchange for lending a little credibility to the theory that Kaolin sabotaged his own factory, you'll tell me a few glimmers of useless information that will vanish when this body dissolves soon. Not much of a deal."

"It's the only one you're being offered. At least your notorious curiosity will be fed."

How inconvenient it is, to have an enemy who knows you so well.

He never let me out of sight, or easy reach of his younger, stronger arms.

"Send no messages," Beta warned, standing next to the Harley's open c.o.c.kpit, uncovering the slot of the reader-scanner for me to slip in the spool of pictures. "Just transmit, verify, and sign off."

He punched in Blane's mailbox at LSA headquarters. A nearby screen asked: Validate Sender ID. Then a single number flashed: 6 Too quickly for conscious thought, I impulsively jabbed a response: 4 The unit responded with 8 ... and I stabbed 3.

It went back and forth like that, rapidfire, two dozen more times, feeling entirely random to me. It wasn't random, of course, but a kind of encryption that's hard to crack or feign, based on a partial copy of Albert's personal Soul Standing Wave that Blane keeps secure in a hard-baked ceramium -- a kind of cypher key that can be used many times. Any particular give-and-take pattern of number cues would be different, unique, yet show a high correlation with the sender's personality -- -- a.s.suming it didn't matter that I was a frankie! Nor my overwrought emotional state, scared and suspicious as h.e.l.l. It actually surprised me when the screen flashed ACCEPTED, taking no longer than usual. Beta's spiral ditto grunted approval.

"Good, now step away from the c.o.c.kpit."

I did so, watching a slim gun -- one of his fingers, removed and reversed to aim a narrow muzzle, waved for me to move back. "I'd love to stay and chat, as promised," said the nine-digited golem. "But I've wasted too much time on you already."

"Do you have a particular destination in mind?"

Keeping the mini-gun trained on me, he climbed into the skycycle. "I found two sets of footprints, heading south. I have a pretty good notion where they're going now. You'd just slow me down."

"So you won't explain about Maharal and Kaolin?"

"If I told you more I'd have to shoot you, against the slim chance that someone might come by and rescue you. As things stand, you're clueless as usual. I'll leave you to dissolve in peace."

"Big of you. I owe you one."

Beta's grin showed that he knew how I meant it. "If it matters any, I'm not the one who tried to kill your rig, Morris. I doubt it was Kaolin, either. In fact, I hope the real you survives what's about to happen."

What's about to happen. He expressed it that way deliberately, to frustrate me. But I kept silent, not giving him any satisfaction. Only action would accomplish anything now. He expressed it that way deliberately, to frustrate me. But I kept silent, not giving him any satisfaction. Only action would accomplish anything now.

"Good-bye, Morris," ditBeta said, closing the gla.s.s bubble, revving the engine to a rising pitch. I stepped back, thinking furiously.

What are my choices?

I still had the cautious option -- wait a bit, burn the Volvo's fuel and hope to attract attention before I melt.

But no. I'd lose his scent. My reason for living.

The skycycle drove dust-billows down the narrow canyon defiles. ditBeta offered a jaunty wave, then turned his corkscrew head back to the job of taking off.

It was my cue. In that split second, as the Harley swung about and began climbing atop three pillars of superheated thrust, I ran forward and leaped. leaped.

There was pain, of course. I knew there would be pain.

46.

All Fired Up ... as realAlbert gets earthy ...

There wasn't much choice except to follow. Back to the storage room. Back to the dark opening where I had seen a small army of clay soldier-figures go plunging into a tunnel of death.

Ritu was still s.h.i.+vering in my arms, recovering her composure from the violation that my enemy inflicted on her -- by forcing her onto an imprinting machine against her will. I wanted to ask Ritu about that. To find out how and why Beta (if it really had had been a copy of the infamous ditnapper) grabbed her in the deep underground sanctuary of a supposedly secure military base. been a copy of the infamous ditnapper) grabbed her in the deep underground sanctuary of a supposedly secure military base.

Before I could begin, a series of loud tones reverberated around us from rank after rank of nearby rapid-bake kilns, announcing the emergence of yet more battle-dittos, sliding forth red and glowing with freshly sparked enzyme catalysis -- special models that had been stored here at taxpayer expense, blank but ready to be imprinted with the souls of reserve warriors like Clara, only now hijacked by an infamous criminal for some reason I couldn't fathom.

If there had been just one or two of them, I could handle the situation quickly. Even a war-golem is helpless during those first moments after sliding from the activation oven. But a glance down the aisle of towering machines showed there were too many -- dozens -- already beginning to stand on trembling legs ... legs like tree trunks ... and stretching arms that could crush a small car. In moments their eyes would focus on Ritu and me. Eyes fired up with some purpose that I didn't want any part of.

And there were more bell-like tones, from tall ovens even farther away, ringing their birth announcements till they merged like some rippling call of destiny. Do not ask for whom the kiln tolls, Do not ask for whom the kiln tolls, commented a wry little voice within. commented a wry little voice within.

Time to get out.

"Let's go," I urged Ritu, and she nodded, as eager as I was to leave that place.

Together we fled in the only direction available, back toward the storeroom where that huge, silent mystery golem grabbed me less than half an hour ago and saved my life -- though I didn't know its motive at the time. Departing, I glanced at the dissolving corpse of my benefactor, wondering who he was and how he knew that I needed help at that particular moment.

Then we were running past dark, fearsome-looking figures, molded and augmented for war. Terracotta forms that turned to glare at us, clumsily reaching out, but slowed by uneven peptide activation. Thank heavens. Fleeing their ranks, I led Ritu back down the corridor of shelves, looking for some weapon big enough to make a difference against their numbers. I'd settle for a simple phone to call up Base Security!

But nothing useful lay in sight -- just tons of freeze-dried gourmet foods, stacked here against some doomsday scenario, meant to feed a governmental elite whose tax-paid job it is to stave off all varieties of doomsday.

There didn't seem to be any good hiding places, either. Not as a platoon of counterfeit warriors began entering the storage room after us, grunting and shuffling as they came. Quick-imprinted, Quick-imprinted, I diagnosed. I diagnosed. Beta doesn't need quality, but speed and large numbers. Beta doesn't need quality, but speed and large numbers.

A nagging sense of doubt yammered at me, screaming that none of it made sense. The golem that rescued me. Beta's sudden appearance here. The two waves of war-dittos that he created for some unexplained reason. The grabbing and force-imprinting of Ritu. It all had to mean something!

But there wasn't time to sort it out, only a series of rapid decisions. Like where to flee. Inexorably, we had but one choice.

Ritu balked at the tunnel entrance. "Where does it go?" she demanded.

"I think it leads under Urraca Mesa, to your father's cabin."

Her eyes widened and her feet planted hard, refusing to budge. I glanced beyond her shoulder to see those shuffling pseudosoldiers approach, still fifty meters away but closing.

"Ritu -- " Despite rising anxiety, I restrained myself from tugging at her arm. She had already been subjected to more force today than anyone should endure.

At last her eyes cleared, coming around to focus on mine. With a grim tightening of the jaw, she nodded.

"All right, Albert. I'm ready."

Ritu took my offered hand. Together we plunged into the tunnel's stony-cold womb.

47.

Vasic Instinct ... as gray and red expand by acclaymation ...

Like a capacious, ever-expanding jar -- this soul contains many.

It feels bottomless, able to absorb a gathering, a plenitude, a forum forum of standing waves, uniting in a resonant chorus of superposed frequencies, combining toward some culmination of ultimate power. of standing waves, uniting in a resonant chorus of superposed frequencies, combining toward some culmination of ultimate power.

It isn't just the two of us anymore -- the Albert Morris gray who was ditnapped from Kaolin Manor, plus the little red copy-of-a-copy who visited the Maharal's private museum for a memory test. Gray and red are linked, serving as mirrors in a mad scientist's wondrously terrifying "glazier" machine. And now there is more, much more.

No longer confined to a single skull -- or even a pair of them -- we/i expand into the vacant s.p.a.ce between, filling its sterile void with a compellingly intricate melody ... an ever-growing song of me me A song heading for its crescendo.

Oh, some kind of amplification is happening, all right, as Yosil's demented ghost predicted. A multiplication of soul-rhythms on a scale I never imagined, though cults and mystics have chattered about such a possibility ever since the Golem Age began. It could be an egomaniac's sublime nirvana state -- the self, exponentiated by countless virtual duplicates that reflect and resonate in perfect harmony, preparing to burst through, en ma.s.se, to a splendid new level of spiritual reification.