“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.”

Pal’s little ferret-ditto rode my shoulder as we retreated from the shuttered front entrance of the Rainbow Lounge, heading around back to find another way inside. A big security fence blocked the service alley, but I didn’t have to mess with it. The gate was ajar. It must have been left that way when a large van passed inside. We squeezed through, then sauntered past the vehicle, looking it over.

That was what the hologo banner said, with angelic cherubs beckoning graciously. A great big dish transmitter on the vehicle’s roof looked handcrafted, rather ornate and much larger than you need for a satellite data link. As we sidled past, my skin tingled, a bit like the recent fizzing sensation of being renewed.

“A lot of energy in that van,” Palloid commented, arching his back, letting the fur bristle.

“Have you heard of these guys?” I asked, shivering till we got past.

“Some. Here and there.” Palloid’s voice was low and terse.

Chilly cryosteam shrouded thick, insulated cables, snaking between the van and the back door of the building, where kitschy organ music filled the dim interior. Warily, I stepped over the cables into a cavernous chamber where several dozen cloaked forms could be made out, swaying to dirgelike harmonies.

“What’re they doing?” Pal asked snidely. “Filming a new episode of Vincent Price Theater?”

I was keenly aware of what happened in this place, only yesterday, when these creatures managed to fool one of Albert’s best grays, tricking him into letting them plant a fiendish bomb in his gut. If they could manage that, a miserable frankie like me had better be careful. Under my skin-deep dye job, I was still humble green.

Adjusting to the light, I saw that all the robed forms wore the same distinctive reddish shade as the one who barred the front door to the Rainbow Lounge. All except a central figure lying on a raised dais, who looked so pale that I first assumed it must be an ivory ditto.

But no, the supine shape was a real person, with sparse patches of gray hair sticking out amid clusters of attached electrodes. Silky red cloth covered much of her heavy, flaccid form. Most people today strive to keep their organic bodies in good shape. (Getting enough of a tan to not be mistaken for a pleasure-golem!) But some folks have just one use for the body they were born in — to serve as a memory vessel, passing impressions from one day’s set of dittos to the next. Evidently, Irene had been on the cutting edge of this trend. No wonder she ran a popular emporium dedicated to fashionable excess!

And yet, from the requiem sounds reverberating all around, I had to guess that Irene’s life — large as it may have been — was finally coming to an end. Her chest rose and fell unevenly beneath the coverlet. Tubes dripped medicinal liquids while a nearby metabolic monitor beeped to a soft, erratic meter.

I saw no kiln. No rows of waiting ditto blanks. So, she wasn’t busy making ghosts, as some do when they know they’re dying — a final spate of autonomous duplicates to handle last-minute details … or to say all those things you never dared to utter while alive. Most of these Irene-copies looked rather elderly. They all might have been present when grayAlbert had his “repairs.”

Did Irene stop duplicating herself at the same time, or soon after? A very odd coincidence, if it was one.

Watching from the shadows, I saw one Irene standing aside from the corny threnody ceremony, conversing with a purple golem whose huge eyes and stylishly curved beak resembled those of a hawk.

“Horus,” Palloid muttered.

“Horace?”

“Horus!” He gestured at the visitor’s bright robe, covered with inscriptions and fancy embroidered figures. “Egyptian god of death and afterlife. Kinda pretentious, by my taste.”

Of course, I thought. Final Options. One of those outfits offering specialized assistance to the dead or dying. If there’s a hypothetical service anybody might want, you can find a million of the bored-unemployed eager to provide it.

I edged closer while hawkface explained items in a glossy brochure.

“… Here’s one of our more popular options. Full cryonic suspension! I have facilities to imbue your archetype’s organic body with the right combination of scientifically balanced stabilization agents, then begin reducing its temperature till we can deliver her to our main storage facility in Redlands, which has its own deep geothermal power supply, armored against anything short of a direct cometary impact! All your rig has to do is imprint a release—”