26

Souls on Celluloid ... or how realAlbert finds an oasis of the heart ...

Ritu and I were rather wrinkled and worn after a long night and a morning spent trekking across arid desert.

You might expect that our gray disguises would look much worse than "wrinkled." But fortunately, the best brands of makeup don't clog your natural pores. Instead of blocking perspiration they actually wick it away, maximizing the cooling effects of any passing wind. Dirt and salt crystals work their way outward. In fact, they say the material keeps you cooler and cleaner than exposed skin.

That's fine, so long as you have plenty of water to drink. Which became a problem twice during our long hike south from the ravine where the Volvo had crashed. Each time our carry-jug ran low in the middle of some great expanse, with no civilization in sight, I wondered if the trek was such a good idea after all.

But despite the appearance of lonely desolation, today's desert isn't the same one our ancestors faced. Whenever we ran low on water, something always came up. Like when we came across an area dotted with abandoned squatters' huts, more than a century old, perched on crude cement slabs with rusting steel roofs. One had ancient shag carpeting, so thick with dust that it sported a thriving shade ecosystem. The cabin's clogged plumbing offered a cistern where we managed to refill the jug with scummy rainwater, unappetizing but welcome nonetheless. Another time, Ritu found a drip pool just inside a defunct mineshaft. I wasn't happy about drinking the mineral-steeped brew, but modern chelating treatments should eliminate any toxins, if we made it to civilization promptly.

So, while our trek was an adventure -- often miserably uncomfortable -- it never became a matter of life-or-death. On several occasions we spotted the glint of a robotic weather station or the dun-colored housing of an ecowebcam. So calling for help was always an option if we got into serious trouble. We had good reasons not to call. It was a matter of choice. That made the journey bearable.

In fact, Ritu and I found enough spare energy to pass the time as we trudged along, continuing our conversation about recent dramas and parasensies we had seen. Like the classic cliché you see all the time -- a duplicate claims to be the "real one," accusing some imposter of taking over his normal life. On a higher plane, we had both seen Red Like Me, the docudrama about a woman whose permanent skin condition made her look unbrown -- unreal to most people -- so she couldn't go anywhere without being treated as a golem. We all put up with being "mere property" much of the time, because it all evens out, right? But this heroine never got to take her turn as citizen/master. The story reminded me of Pal, stuck in his life-support chair, unable to experience the world fully except through dittos. The modern bargain isn't always fair.

That's how I learned why Ritu came on this trip in person, instead of sending a gray. It turns out she's handicapped, too. She can't make reliable copies. They often come out wrong.

All right, millions of folks can't use kilns at all, suffering the disadvantage of just one, linear life. Bigots call them "soulless," thinking it happens to those who lack a true Standing Wave to copy. The heritable deficit can make it hard to get a job or win a mate. Indeed, today's heartless version of capital punishment severs a felon's Bevvisov-nexus, preventing him from imprinting, trapping him forever in the confines of a single body.

Many tens of millions can animate only crude, shambling caricatures, able to mow the lawn or paint a fence -- but no more than that.

Ritu's problem is different. She imprints dittos of great subtlety and intelligence, but many are frankies, diverging radically. "When I was a teenager, they'd often come out of the kiln resentful, even hating me! Instead of helping to achieve my goals, some tried sabotaging them, or put me in embarrassing situations.

"Only in recent years did I reach a kind of equilibrium. Now, maybe half of my golems do what I want. The rest wander off, mostly harmlessly. Still, I always install strong transponder pellets, to make sure they behave."

The awkward confession came after we'd been walking for hours, fatigue wearing away her reticent shell. I mumbled sympathetically, lacking the nerve to tell her that I never made frankies. (Till yesterday's green sent that strange message, that is. And I'm still not sure I believe it.)

As for Ritu's problem, my professional readings in psychopathology left room for one conclusion -- the daughter of Yosil Maharal had deep psychological troubles that stay mute while she's safely confined to her natural skin. But dittoing unleashes them with callous amplification. A classic case of suppressed self-hatred, I thought, then chided myself for diagnosing another person on slim evidence.

This explained why she accompanied me in person, Tuesday evening. It was clearly important to help investigate her father's old desert lodge. To ensure it got done right, she must come the old-fashioned way.

A lot of our conversation -- including this confession -- was recorded on the little transcriber planted under the skin behind my ear. I felt bad about that, but saw no way to stop it. Maybe I'll erase that part later, when I get a chance.

The Jesse Helms International Combat Range.

From a distance, it looks like a fairly typical military base in the desert -- a green oasis dotted with swaying palms, tennis courts and resort-scale swimming pools. The barracks for quartering troops during wartime seem appropriately spartan -- tree-shaded cabana-style residence bungalows in muted pastels, cloistered near cybersim stations, practice arenas, and zen contemplation gardens. Everything needed by soldiers seeking to hone their martial spirit.

In stark contrast to those stoical training grounds, brash hotels jut skyward near the main gate, serving journalists and fight aficionados who converge in person for each major battle. Killwire barriers keep out reporters and flitting hobbycams, so the warriors inside may concentrate without interruption. Preparing their souls for battle.

Far beyond the oasis, under a natural hillock surrounded by tire ruts, lay the underground bowels of the base -- a support complex never viewed by millions of fans who dial in for each televised clash. Below reside all the special weapon fabricators and customized golem-presses required by a modern military. Another subterranean mound, several kilometers away, offers guest facilities to visiting armies who come several times a year to brave weeks of feverish struggle, beyond a range of hills -- in the battleground proper.

"Well, it doesn't look as if the war's over," Ritu commented as we took turns peering through a hand-held ocular, one of a few items salvaged from my ruined Volvo. Even standing on a crest five kilometers outside the boundary, you could tell; the grudge match between PEZ and Indonesia still ran hot. Hotel parking areas were full. And the far southern sky glittered with floatcams and relaysats.

Oh, something was going on, below that distant horde of buzzing voyeur-eyes, just behind an escarpment of granite cliffs. Sporadic rumbles -- like angry thunder -- kept spilling over that craggy barrier. On several occasions, powerful booms made the very air throb around Ritu and me. Those detonations escorted flashes of harsh light so brilliant that brief shadows danced across the sun-drenched terrain.

Something very close to hell was unfolding beyond the escarpment. A fiery maelstrom of death, more violent and merciless than our savage ancestors could have imagined ... and you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone alive in our crowded world who felt badly about it.

"So," my companion asked. "How do we get in to see your soldier-girlfriend? Do we stroll up to the main gate and have her paged?"

I shook my head. If only it were that easy. All during our hard slog across the desert, this stage weighed heavily on my mind.

"I don't think it'd be a good idea to attract attention."

"No kidding. Last I heard, you were a suspect in a major crime."

"And dead."

"Oh yes, and dead. That could raise a stir when you present your retina for an ID scan. So then. Do you want me to do it? I can rent a room. Let us finally scrape off this makeup." She gestured at the gray pseudoskin that covered both of us, looking rather weathered after many hours of sun and harsh wind. "I could take a hot bath while you call your friend."

I shook my head. "Of course it's up to you, Ritu. But I doubt you should reveal yourself, either. Even if the police aren't after you, there's still Aeneas Kaolin to consider."

"If that was Aeneas who shot at us, on the highway. Seeing ain't believing, Albert."

"Hm. Will you bet your life it wasn't him? Clearly, Kaolin and your father were engaged in something big. Something disturbing. All signs indicate they had a parting of ways. It may have led to your father's death on the very same highway where we were ambushed -- "

Ritu raised a hand. "You convinced me. We need a secure web port to find out what's going on, before letting anyone know we survived."

"And Clara's just the one to arrange it." I raised the ocular again. "Assuming we cross the next few kilometers and get her attention."

"Any ideas how to do that?"

I pointed left, away from the main gate of the base, toward a ramshackle encampment that ran along the killwire fence, some distance beyond the glitzy hotels. Multicolored figures could be seen moving amid a lurid variety of tents, mobile homes, and makeshift arenas, giving the impression of an anarchist's carnival.

"Down there. That's where we go next."