“Any ghosts would still be around, Morris. But Alpha never told you about that, did she?”

Alpha. Beta’s nickname for Ritu, naturally. In the dim light her face seemed gaunt, sickened by the figure on the ground, by its injuries and flippant attitude, but above all by the Mirror Effect — disgust at seeing a reflection of yourself that you despise. She had it bad.

“What’s he talking about?” I demanded. But Ritu only backed away two steps, shaking her head.

The shattered golem laughed. “Go on, tell him! Tell Morris about Project Zoroaster and its multifaceted assault on the status quo. Like the new method to replenish dittos, so they last weeks or even months—”

“But that would …”

“—or the research into making better imprints from one ditto to another. That’s the part I was interested in professionally, of course, to make piracy really pay. I needed details that Ritu never learned at her day job, way up in the UK management dome, and for some finicky reason she refused to go down to R amp;D, no matter how hard I prodded. So I came up with a nifty espionage plan instead … one that used you, Morris.

“Only it must’ve backfired, I guess. Seems I finally offended somebody powerful. Someone with the resources to track me down and—”

“Powerful. You mean Kaolin?”

A shrug. “Who else? He was already upset when Yosil vanished, taking all his records and prototypes. Maybe Aeneas decided it was time to clean house, to purge Project Zoroaster … and get rid of all his enemies while he was at it.

“But your guess about that is as good as mine. This is the first chance I’ve had to incarnate for weeks! When it comes to recent events, all I know is what Ritu’s seen and heard. If only I had time, I’d put out feelers. Verify what I think panicked Aeneas. Maybe plan some revenge.

“But now—”

Tremors shook the remnant golem. Clay skin that once seemed nearly as supple as the real thing now cracked, rapidly mimicking the onset of age. Struggling, ditBeta grunted a few words at a time.

“Now … there’s a much … more critical matter … to deal with.”

I shook my head.

“You mean Yosil’s ghost is trying to do something—”

“—that must be stopped!” The clay soldier used its good arm to grab at at Ritu. “Go on … Tell Morris … what it’s about. Tell him what … Father is trying to do.

“Tell him!”

A wild look filled Ritu’s eyes. She treated two more steps the way we came, back toward Urraca Mesa and the hidden sanctuary of Yosil Maharal. I could only make out the whites of her eyes as I called.

“Wait! Beta’s trying to spook you … to herd you back among the others. But this one’s harmless, look!” I struck with my foot and the arm flew off, shattering as it hit the ground.

“Come this way,” I urged, holding out my hand to help her to step over the decaying war-doll. “We can escape—”

“Eshcape!” Beta’s putrefying ditto was down to a corroded half-face and part of a torso, yet it maintained enough force of will to emit guttural laughter.

“Jussst go to the end … of thiss tunnel … Morrissss … and see your esh — cape!”

The golem’s final cackle was the last straw for Ritu. With a moan of dread and self-revulsion, she swiveled about and ran back the way we came, toward the main tunnel. None of my shouts availed.

You can’t reason with blind panic. Not that I blame her.

Soon — predictably — I heard Ritu’s despairing cry as she ran headlong into our pursuers. More Betas, no more pleasant than the version at my feet. Only these would be intact.

I couldn’t help her now. My sole chance was to turn and flee as the nearest Beta liquefied at last. His final laughter flayed at me, driving my haste as it had Ritu’s, even after the last audible echoes faded.

A real battle must have raged here, I observed. Machines set up by Yosil Maharal fought bitterly against clay automatons bearing one aspect of his daughter’s many-faced personality. The treasure they vied over must be important! Hurrying, I heard a distant drum of pursuing footsteps, drawing closer from behind.

At last, the crude tunnel came to an abrupt end. A metal wall stretched left and right before me — armor that was clearly meant to keep trespassers out. The barrier should have worked. It might have, if the base guardians had listened for approaching moles. They meant to, I knew. They established all the proper instruments and vigilant watch programs. Only someone much smarter managed to hack the defense system, fooling the mechanical wardens of this secret redoubt into ignoring blatant sounds of digging.

A broad face of high-tech steel had been exposed, then a jagged-slanted section removed, carefully avoiding embedded continuity detectors. More evidence of an inside job, planned by someone in the know. Of course this was all short term. It wouldn’t take long to track down the culprit, once Base Security services were roused. The thief had only a little time to execute his plan, whatever it was.

Approaching the wall fissure — a centimeter thick, I noted — the implant in my left eye scanned for ambush by any leftover cockatrice-bots, though all I saw were fragments. It also got busy trying to put through that phone call to Base Security, but no link was in line-of-sight yet. I’d have to step inside and hope …

Then I saw the emblem:

The armored room was supposed to have just one entrance. I saw it opposite from me — a heavy airlock with massive, overlapping closures. Almost as imposing were a dozen bulky refrigerators, each of them triple-locked and covered with ribbon seals to show any trace of tampering.

Somebody had tampered, though, carefully bypassing the alarm wiring on two storage units, then slicing new openings to avoid the locks. Frosty condensation exhaled from the gaps as laboring heat pumps strove to keep up. But that cold was nothing compared to the chill passing through my heart as I glimpsed all the burglary detritus strewn across the floor — abandoned metal trays and torn plastic coverings showing more of those frightening BIOHAZARD symbols. Without any conscious will on my part, the implant zoomed till I could read some ripped tags, carrying names like Airborne Saringenia and Tumoformia Phiddipidesia: Advanced Strain.

Clara once told me about Saringenia — a truly nasty organic plague that had been tested during the Fizzle War. As for Phiddipidesia, a mild version that escaped ten years ago caused the SouthWestern Eco-Toxic Aquifer Plume. I shuddered to imagine what an “advanced” strain could do.

According to solemn treaty, stocks were supposed to have been destroyed long ago.

Naturally, web cynics have always spun lurid tales about dark conspiracies. Vaults like this one had to exist, they claimed. It just isn’t in human nature to throw away a weapon.

I stood there, half-astride the gap in the metal wall, gazing into whistle-blower’s paradise, pondering the huge tattler’s bounty if I reported all this to the open nets … and wondering how the Dodecs ever managed to keep it secret in this day and age. That is, I would have pondered such things, I’m sure, if I weren’t paralyzed with mind-numbing terror. Especially when I noticed a spray of glittering slivers on the floor … bits of glass from vials that had fallen during the hurried robbery.

It was already way too late to start holding my breath.

How long I stood there, blankly staring at death’s shiny frosting, I cannot imagine. What finally stirred me from blank fixation was a sound — drumming footbeats announcing the approach of a more familiar and tangible threat. One the mind could grasp.

“Well, Morris. Here you are.” Beta’s voice rocked me off the cusp of fear. “Now you see what’s at stake. So why don’t you be a good little shamus and back away from there, hm?” From the shadows behind me emerged half a dozen of the burly war-dittos Beta had hijacked from the reserve armory, advancing under the tunnel’s low ceiling in a stooped crouch.