Kiln People: Amazon.ca: David Brin: Books

From Amazon

Just about everyone's had a day when they've wished it were possible to send an alternate self to take care of unpleasant or tedious errands while the real self takes it easy. In Kiln People, David Brin's sci-fi-meets-noir novel, this wish has come true. In Brin's imagined future, folks are able to make inexpensive, disposable clay copies of themselves. These golems or "dittos" live for a single day to serve their creator, who can then choose whether or not to "inload" the memories of the ditto's brief life. But private investigator Albert Morris gets more than he, or his "ditective" copies, bargain for when he signs on to help solve the mysterious disappearance of Universal Kilns' co-founder Yasil Maharal--the father of dittotech.

Brin successfully interweaves plot lines as numerous as our hero's ditectives and doggedly sticks to the rules of his created dittotech while Morris's "realflesh" and clay manifestations slowly unravel the dangerous secret behind Maharal's disappearance. As Brin juggles his multiple protagonists and antagonists, he urges the reader to question notions of memory, individualism, and technology, and to answer the schizoid question "which 'you' is 'you?'" Brin's enjoyment is evident as he plays with his terracotta creations' existential angst and simultaneously deconstructs the familiar streetwise detective meme--complete with a multilayered ending. Overall, Kiln People is a fun read, with a good balance of hard science fiction and pop sensibility. --Jeremy Pugh --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

From Publishers Weekly

Bestselling novelist Brin (Startide Rising; The Postman; etc.) restricts the action to planet Earth, but still allows his imagination to roam the cosmos in this ambitious SF/mystery hybrid whose grasp occasionally exceeds its reach. Thanks to the new technology of imprinting, people in a near-future America can copy their personalities into animated clay bodies (called "dittos" or "golems"), which last a single day. Albert Morris, private investigator, is his own sidekick as he attempts to uncover the murderer of a prominent imprinting research scientist, capture a criminal mastermind specializing in ditto the major ditto manufacturer and pinning the blame on several Alberts. Brin deftly explores the issues of identity, privacy and work in a world where everyone is supported with a living wage and has ready access to duplication technology. The book features the author's usual style, with a lighter touch and punnish humor abounding amid the hard SF speculation. The duplication of the "ditective" makes for a challenging twist on the standard private eye narrative, allowing Morris to simultaneously lead the reader through three separate (and interacting) plot lines. The hardboiled framework and the humor mix a bit uneasily, as does the social background of a libertarian/socialist U.S.A. The book's major fault lies in the diffusion of most of the tension as expendable dittos replace vulnerable humans for much of the action. Still, the work is brightened by Brin's trademark hardheaded optimism.

--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

From Library Journal

In a future world where disposable clones handle humanity's day-to-day chores, Albert Morris uses his "dittos" to assist him in his job as a private investigator. When he stumbles upon the knowledge of a new technology that could alter the concept of human nature forever, he becomes part of a bloody and violent street war that threatens the fabric of society and the human race. Brin (The Postman) presents a rich, kaleidoscopic story that challenges the concepts of identity and individuality. For most sf collections.

--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

From Booklist

The consequences of a single consciousness successively inhabiting several disposable bodies is the classic sf theme Brin imaginatively varies in this book. Albert Morris, a detective in a bizarre future L.A., is investigating copyright violations--to wit, the construction of illegal "dittos," as the disposable bodies are called. The family of an archetypal Mr. Big calls him in, because Mr. Big is up to something, and the family needs some very private investigation. The flavor here is rather that of a collaboration between Raymond Chandler and Philip K. Dick, but Brin works out details so exhaustively that he comes up with an absorbing story to reward the effort of page-by-page reading. Perhaps he includes more preaching than some will care for, but mostly this is another feather in the cap of an author who refuses to make any concessions to the dumbing down of scientific concepts in sf. Roland Green
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Review

: “Intricate plotting, unflagging inventiveness, and a judicious sprinkling of puns and in-jokes: Brin keeps the pages feverishly turning.”–Kirkus Reviews

“Brin presents a rich, kaleidoscopic story that challenges the concepts of identity and individuality.”– Library Journal

“Brin deftly explores the issues of identity, privacy and work . . . the book features the author’s usual style, with a lighter touch and punish humor abounding amid the hard SF speculation.”--Publishers Weekly

“More than any writer I know, David Brin can take scary, important problems and turn them sideways, revealing wonderful opportunities. This talent shows strongly in Kiln People, a novel which is deep and insightful and often hilarious, all at the same time.”—Vernor Vinge

Book Description

In a perilous future, disposable duplicate bodies fulfill every citizen's legal and illicit whim. Life as a 24-hour "ditto" is cheap, as Albert Morris knows. A brash investigator with a knack for trouble, he's sent plenty of clay duplicates into deadly peril, then "inloaded" memories from copies that were shot, crushed, drowned . . . all part of a day's work.

But when Morris tackles a ring of crooks making bootleg copies of a famous actress, he trips into a secret so explosive it incites open warfare on the streets of Dittotown.

Kiln People is a 2003 Hugo Award Nominee for Best Novel.

About the Author

David Brin is the author of more than a dozen novels, including six volumes in his award-winning Uplift saga, as well as two short story collections and a nonfiction work, The Transparent Society, about privacy in the electronic age. His New York Times bestseller The Postman was the basis for a major motion picture starring Kevin Costner. Brin was a fellow at the California Space Institute and at the Jet Propulsion Lab, studying spacecraft design, cometary physics, and analyses of the likelihood of life in the universe. He now lives in southern California.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Kiln People

PART I

Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute

Betwixt damnation and impassioned clay Must I burn through ...

But when I am consumed in the Fire.

Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.

-John Keats,

"On Sitting Down to Reed King Leer Once Again"

A Good Head for Wine

... or how Monday's green ditto brings home fond memories of the river ...

It's hard to stay cordial while fighting for your life, even when your life doesn't amount to much.

Even when you're just a lump of clay.

Some kind of missile--a stone I guess--smacked the brick wall inches away, splattering my face with stinging grit. There wasn't any shelter to cower behind, except an overstuffed trash can. I grabbed the lid and swung it around.

Just in time. Another slug walloped the lid, denting plastic instead of my chest.

Someone had me nailed.

Moments ago, the alley had seemed a good place to hide and catch my breath. But now its chill darkness betrayed me instead. Even a ditto gives off some body heat. Beta and his gang don't carry guns into this part of town--they wouldn't dare--but their slingshots come equipped with infrared sights.

I had to flee the betraying darkness. So while the shooter reloaded, I raised my makeshift shield and dashed for the bright lights of Odeon District.

It was a risky move. The place swarmed with archies, dining at cafés or milling about near classy theaters. Couples strolled arm-in-arm along the quay, enjoying a riverside breeze. Only a few coloreds like me could be seen--mostly waiters serving their bland-skinned betters at canopied tables.

I wasn't going to be welcome in this zone, where owners throng to enjoy their long, sensuous lives. But if I stayed on back streets I'd get hacked into fish food by my own kind. So I took a chance.

Damn. It's crowded, I thought, while picking a path across the plaza, hoping to avoid brushing against any of the sauntering archies. Though my expression was earnest--as if I had a legit reason to be there--I must have stood out like a duck among swans, and not just because of skincolor. My torn paper clothes drew notice. Anyway, it's kind of hard to move delicately while brandishing a battered trash lid between your vitals and the alley behind you.

A sharp blow struck the plastic again. Glancing back, I saw a yellow-hued figure lower his slingshot to load another round. Furtive shapes peered from the shadows, debating how to reach me.

I plunged into the crowd. Would they keep shooting and risk hitting a real person?

Ancient instinct--seared into my clay body by the one who made me--clamored to run. But I faced other dangers now--from the archetype human beings surrounding me. So I tried to perform all the standard courtesies, bowing and stepping aside for couples who wouldn't veer or slow down for a mere ditto.

I had a minute or two of false hopes. Women chiefly looked past me, like I didn't exist. Most of the men were more puzzled than hostile. One surprised chap even made way for me, as if I were real. I smiled back. I'll do the same for your ditto someday, chum.

But the next fellow wasn't satisfied when I gave him right of way. His elbow planted a sharp jab, en passant, and pale eyes glittered, daring me to complain.

Bowing, I forced an ingratiatingly apologetic smile, stepping aside for the archie while I tried to focus on a pleasant memory. Think about breakfast, Albert. The fine odors of coffee and fresh-baked muffins. Slimple pleasures that I might have again, if I made it through the night.

"I" will definitely have them again, said an inner voice. Even if this body doesn't make it.

Yes, came a reply. But that won't be me. Not exactly.

I shook off the old existential quandary. Anyway, a cheap utility rox like me can't smell. At the moments, I could barely grasp the concept.

The blue-eyed fellow shrugged and turned away. But the next second, something struck pavement near my left foot, ricocheting across the plaza.

Beta had to be desperate, shooting stones at me amid a throng of real citizens! People glanced around. Some eyes narrowed toward me.

And to think, this morning started so well.

I tried to hurry, making a few more meters farther across the plaza before I was stopped by a trio of young men--well--dressed young archies--intentionatly blocking my path.

"Will you look at this mule?" the tall one said. Another, with fashionably translucent skin and reddish eyes, jabbed a finger at me. "Hey,ditto! What's the rush? You can't still be hoping for an afterlife! Who's gonna want you back, all torn up like that?"

I knew how I must look. Beta's gang had pummeled me good before I managed to escape. Anyway, I was only an hour or two short of expiration and my cracking pseudoflesh showed clear signs of enzyme decay. The albino guffawed at the trash can lid I was wielding as a shield. He sniffed loudly, wrinkling his nose.

"It smells bad, too. Like garbage. Spoilin' my appetite. Hey! Maybe we have cause for a civil complaint, you reckon?"

"Yeah. How about it, golem?" the tall one leered. "Give us your owner's code. Cough up a refund on our dinner!"

I raised a placating hand. "Come on, fellas. I'm on an urgent errand for my original. I really do have to get home. I'm sure you hate it when your dittos are kept from you."

Beyond the trio, I glimpsed the bustle and noise of Upas Street. If only I could make it to the taxi stand, or even the police kiosk on Defense Avenue. For a small fee they'd provide refrigerated sanctuary, till my owner came for me.

"Urgent, eh?" the tall one said. "If your rig still wants you, even in this condition, I'll bet he'd pay to get you back, eh?"

The final teen, a stocky fellow with deep brown skin and hair done in a wire cut, appeared more sympathetic.

"Aw, leave the poor greenie alone. You can see how badly it wants to get home and spill. If we stop it, the owner may fine us."

A compelling threat. Even the albino wavered, as if about to back off.

Then Beta's shooter in the alley fired again, hitting my thigh below the shielding trash can lid.

Anyone who has duped and inloaded knows that pseudoflesh can feel pain. Fiery agony sent me recoiling into one of the youths, who pushed me away, shouting.

"Get off, you stinky thing! Did you see that? It touched me!"

"Now you'll pay, you piece of clay," added the tall one. "Let's see your tag."

Still shuddering, I managed to hobble around so he stood between me and the alley. My pursuers wouldn't dare shoot now, and risk hitting an archie.

"Fool," I said. "Can't you see I've been shot?"

"So?" The albino's nostrils flared. "My dits get mangled in org-warsall the time. You don't see me griping about it. Or bringing a fight to the Odeon, of all places! Now let's see that tag."

He held out a hand and I reflexively reached for the spot under my forehead where the ID implant lay. A golem-duplicate has to show his tag to a realperson, on demand. This incident was going to cost me ... that is, it would cost my maker. The semantic difference would depend on whether I made it home in the next hour.

"Fine. Call a cop or arbiter," I said, fumbling at the flap of pseudoskin. "We'll see who pays a fine, punk. I'm not playing simbat games. You're impeding the double of a licensed investigator. Those shooting at me are real criminals ..."

I glimpsed figures emerging from the alley. Yellow-skinned members of Beta's gang, straightening paper garments and trying to look innocuous amid the crowd of strolling archies, bowing and giving way like respectful errand boys, not worth noticing. But hurrying.

Damn. I never saw Beta this desperate before.

" ... and my brain holds evidence that may be crucial in solving an important case. Do you want to be responsible for preventing that?"

Two of the teens drew back, looking unsure. I added pressure. "If you don't let me get about my owner's business, he'll post a charge for restraint of legal commerce!"

We were attracting a crowd. That could slow Beta's bunch, but time wasn't on my side.

Alas, the third punk--with the artificially translucent skin--wasn't daunted. He tapped his wrist screen.

"Giga. I got enough juice in the bank to cover a blood fine. If we're gonna pay this dit's owner, let's have the joy of shutting it down hard."

He seized my arm, clenching with the strength of well-toned muscles--real muscles, not my anemic imitations. The grip hurt, but worse was knowing I'd overplayed my hand. If I'd kept my mouth shut, they might have let me go. Now the data in this brain would be lost and Beta would win after all.

The young man cocked his fist dramatically, playing for the crowd. He meant to snap my neck with a blow.

Someone muttered, "Let the poor thing go!" But a noisier contingent egged him on.

Just then a crash reverberated across the courtyard. Voices cursed harshly. Onlookers turned toward a nearby restaurant, where diners at an outdoor table hopped away from a mess of spilled liquid and shattered glassware. A green-skinned busboy dropped his tray and murmured apologies,using a rag to wipe glittering shards off the upset customers. Then he slipped, taking one of the infuriated patrons along with him in a spectacular pratfall. Laughter surged from the crowd as the restaurant's maitre-dit rushed out, berating the greenie and seeking to appease the wet clients.

For an instant no one was looking at me except the albino, who seemed miffed over losing his ...

Kiln People [Mass Market Paperback]

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