Soon I passed by a wall that had been chipped and smoothed by human hands. My good eye glimpsed figures, etched in the rocky face by strike-flaking, one chiseled nick at a time. Petroglyphs, incised by some long-ago native people who deemed this cave a sacred place of power, where nature’s forces might be implored and miracles invoked. Humanoid shapes with sticklike arms and legs brandished spears toward rough-drawn beasts — simpler dreams, but no less ambitious or sincere than anything we hope for today.

Let me thrive and prevail, the magic on the wall beseeched.

I agreed, amen.

For about a hundred meters there weren’t any more distractions. Dragging myself along with one arm and a bad leg became so normal, I found it hard to recall any other mode of existence. Then, blinking in confusion, I found myself confronting a decision: a fork in the trail.

Left — a small niche room contained humming machinery. Familiar mechanisms, a freezer, imprinter, and kiln combination. Automated and ready-to-use.

Ahead — a well-lit ramp lunged downward, to the belly of the mountain. The vibrations came from there. It was also the direction taken by Beta’s footprints. The focus of big events. Probably the doctor’s secret lab, in all its glory.

I didn’t bother examining the third path, leading to the right. And upward, yuck. I had enough trouble deciding between just two options. Should I keep following Beta, or try something really daring?

The autokiln beckoned, its ready lights all gleaming the same color that I first wore when Albert made me long ago. It sure was a lot closer than trying to catch Beta by slithering after him. How alluring to contemplate swapping a ruined, expiring body for a fresh one!

Alas, there was no guarantee I could manage to pull myself onto the imprinting platform with just one arm and a bum leg, let alone fumble the controls correctly, setting golem-creation in motion.

Disadvantage number two: everybody knows that it’s non-warranty for a copy to try making copies. True, Albert was — or is — an excellent copier. But trying ditto-to-ditto using me as a template? At best a cheap frankie, now a complete ruin, how could I make anything but a mindless, shambling thing? Anyway, the exertion of reaching the perceptron platform would likely finish this body.

On the other hand, straight ahead lay a smooth downhill path to the center of all secrets …

That isn’t the way.

I winced. It was the damned external voice again. The bedeviling scold.

You may want to go right.

Upward.

It could be important.

Obstinate anger nearly overwhelmed me. I didn’t need a termagant hounding the last moments of my pitiful existence!

Oh, but perhaps you do.

And to my surprise, I realized something about the statement rang true.

I could not — and still cannot — explain what made me decide to accept that advice against all evidence and reason, abandoning two known options to invest all that I had left in a final daunting climb.

Perhaps it amounted to — why not?

Turning away from the tempting autokiln … and Beta’s hated footprints … I started to drag myself up the crude stairs.

Ritu and I were trapped in that awful tunnel under Urraca Mesa, with one band of enemies battling toward us from behind while others blocked further progress ahead. We could only crouch in the narrow passageway while gunfire echoes pinged around us from both directions.

Beta seemed to be running out of fighters. Only one damaged drone was assigned to watch over us. Still, he seemed quite capable of guarding two scared organics.

“I should have made more of myself when I had the chance,” groused the giant golem.

Ritu winced. She was already worn out from imprinting so many dittos with the alternate personality carried around inside her head, obliged to do so by a compulsion stronger than addiction. The thought of copying more would only deepen her self-loathing. I worried in the dim half-light that Ritu might suddenly leap up and try to end her misery by dashing toward the combat zone, throwing her body into the melee before warriors of both sides could cease fire.

Lacking any other way to be helpful — and badly needing distraction from my own worries — I tried asking questions.

“When did you realize about Beta?”

She seemed at first not to hear, chewing a lip, eyes darting nervously. I repeated the question. Finally, Ritu answered without looking back directly.

“Even as a kid, I knew something was wrong with me. Some inner conflict made me do or say things I didn’t intend or that I’d later regret, sabotaging relationships and …” Ritu shook her head. “I guess a lot of adolescents might describe the very same problem. But it got far worse when I started imprinting. Dittos wandered off, or returned only to inload fragmented memories. Can you imagine how frustrating and unfair it felt? I was born into this business. I know dittoing better than most of the UK development guys! I kept telling myself it must be a glitch in the machinery. It would clear up with next year’s model.”

She turned to look at me.

“That must have been denial, I suppose.”

No kidding. It was like calling the ocean wet.

“Did you ever seek help?”

She turned haunted eyes downward. “Do you think I need help?”

It took hard effort to squelch a reflexive, horrified laugh. The force of repression within her must be incredible to even ask such a question while we cowered in this awful place.

“When did I start to understand?” Ritu continued after a few seconds. “Weeks ago, I overheard my father and Aeneas argue fiercely over whether to announce some new breakthroughs, like extending ditto lifespan. Aeneas called the methods unready and complained how much of Yosil’s research aimed at mystical areas like non-homologous imprinting …”

I made an earnest effort to listen as Ritu’s story poured out at last. I was interested, really. But the tunnel felt so stifling and hot … I couldn’t help wondering, were my sweats a symptom of some vile plague, contracted during my brief visit to the germ warfare room? Were superfast pathogens already tearing through my flesh?

I did not want to think about that! Like Ritu, I sought distraction from helplessness in dialogue.

“Um … could those quarrels with Aeneas explain why your father went into hiding?”

“I guess so … but they had always fought like brothers, ever since Aeneas bought the Bevvisov-Maharal process to animate his movie-effex dolls. The two of them usually calmed down and sorted things out.”

“Not this time though,” I prompted. “Kaolin—”

“—accused Yosil of stealing files and equipment! I could tell Aeneas was furious. Yet he kept his anger bottled, as if Father had some power over him. Something that kept even the chairman of Universal Kilns from interfering, no matter how mad he got.”

“Blackmail?” I suggested. “Kaolin’s ditto was snooping around your father’s house when you and I met there Tuesday evening. Maybe he was looking for evidence to destroy, right after knocking off Yosil—”

“No.” Ritu shook her head. “Before he departed for the last time, I overheard Father tell Aeneas, ‘I’m your only hope, so get out of my way if you haven’t the guts to help.’ That sounds rather scary, I admit, but not like blackmail. Anyway, I still can’t believe Aeneas would murder anyone.”

“Well, some Kaolin dit-alike shot at us later that night, on the desert highway.”

As if on cue, several loud bangs resonated where Beta’s rear guard still fought off unnamed enemies. Panic reignited in Ritu’s eyes … till she pushed the dread away one more time. In her own way, she was showing real courage.