Good news, right? It’d liberate me from a heavy burden — sole obligation to uncover the truth. For all I knew, right now Al and a dozen of his loyal copies were already hard on the trail of the villains, closing in with grim determination to avenge his incinerated garden.

And yet … the idea also brought with it a sense of letdown. For a while, I had actually felt important. As if this little sliver of existence somehow mattered on the grand scale of things. Justice seemed to depend on me. On what I chose to do.

Now?

Well, my duty’s clear. To report, of course. To describe everything I’ve learned and offer my services to my betters.

But it’s nowhere near as romantic as fighting on, alone.

I decided what to do while watching Clara poke through the ruins, apparently far more concerned with uncovering Albert’s fate than taking part in her war. If Al was alive, he hadn’t even bothered to contact her. Not even to let her know he was all right!

Maybe he preferred the company of the beautiful heiress, Ritu Maharal.

Bastard.

Sometimes you only see yourself clearly by standing on the outside. Or better yet, by becoming someone new.

All right, that brings me up to the present. My story’s done. I’ll submit one copy for the cache … in case there are any Alberts running around who care to listen.

And I’ll send an abbreviated report to Miss Ritu Maharal. She was Albert’s final employer, just before the missile attack, so I guess she deserves to be told that I think Aeneas Kaolin has gone murderously insane.

But I’m really doing it for Clara. She’s the reason why I stood here under this chador for ten extra minutes, rapid-reciting a first-person narration of everything I’ve seen and done for the last couple of days, leading all the way to this moment. Doing it despite entreaties from Pal’s little ferret-ditto, warning that each added second exposed us to danger. Either from Kaolin or some unknown enemy, maybe even worse.

Whatever. My report probably won’t matter. I’ve uncovered only a few pieces of the puzzle, after all. Far from enough to solve the case, for sure.

Maybe I just duplicated work that’s already been done by other, much better versions of “me.”

Hell, I don’t even know where I’ll go next … though I do have a few ideas.

Still, I can tell you one thing, Clara.

As long as this small patch of soul continues, I’ll remember you. Till the recycling tank finally claims me, I’ve got something … and someone … to live for.

Wow.

This place is amazing.

I really must switch to realtime, in order to describe what I’m seeing right now.

Even so, can I begin to do it justice? Especially having to grunt into a tiny recorder-implant that I borrowed from a dead golem. An implant that may not even be functioning properly?

And yet, what can I do except try? Not many people get to witness this spectacle. Not without getting their brains wiped clear of the memory, right afterward.

An entire army stands at attention before me, divided by rank and specialty into squads, platoons, companies, and regiments. Casting long shadows in the dim light, row after row of sturdy figures extends into the distance. Neither living nor quite lifeless, silent in the chilly dry air of a deep subterranean cavern that must stretch for kilometers, each soldier abides sealed by a thin layer of gel-wrap to maintain freshness, awaiting an order that may never come — a command to turn on the lights and fire up nearby kilns, rousing a clay legion from its sleep.

Corporal Chen says they have a motto in this corps — Open, bake, serve … and protect.

That touch of whimsy — a note of self-deprecating humor — reassures me. A bit. I guess.

Oh, it’s not too much of a surprise. There have always been rumors of a secret stash — or more than one — where the nation’s real military power is kept, dormant but ever ready. Surely the generals and planners in the Dodecahedron know that twenty little reserve battalions, like Clara’s, won’t suffice if real war ever returns. Everyone assumes that those gladiator-entertainer units represent the tip of the iceberg.

Yeah, but to see it now, with my own eyes …

“Come on,” says ditto-Chen, motioning for us to follow his apelike form. “This way to that secure dataport I promised.”

Ritu’s been wiping her face with a cleanser towel to remove ragged leftovers of gray makeup ever since we entered a tunnel leading deep under the vast military complex. Only now the towel hangs from a limp hand as she stares at endless ranks of golem-soldiery, standing watch in their filmy, shrink-wrap cocoons.

“Amazing. I can see why they would build such a facility here, under the surface base, so the warriors who train up there can readily imprint spare copies for this stockpile force. But I still don’t understand.” She waves at the rigid brigades standing before us. “Why do you need so many?”

With a shrug, Chen resigns himself to the role of tour guide.

“Because the other side may have made even more.” He takes a bowlegged step toward us. “Think about it, Miss. It’s cheap to dig holes. So is making an army of pre-imprinted dittos. You don’t have to spend anything on food or training. No insurance or pensions and very little maintenance. We have good intelligence that it’s been done in over a dozen other countries, some of them unfriendly. The Indies have their force in a big cave under Java. The Southern Han, the Guats, and the Gujarats all have mega-hordes tucked away underground. After all, who could resist the temptation? Imagine having available a military force bigger than the Prussians fielded at the Marne — one that can be mobilized and transported across the world within hours. With every trooper fully prepared, carrying the skills and experience of a battle-hardened veteran.”

“It’s scary as hell,” I answer.

Chen nods in agreement. “So we gotta have the same thing — a corps of defenders, ready to rise from the ground at a few hours’ notice. At one level, it’s simply a matter of outditting the enemy.”

“I mean the whole situation is scary. This kind of insane arms race—”

“Arms, legs, torsos … don’t quibble. Call it diterrence — making sure the other guy knows he’ll get hurt bad if he ever tries to throw us a first strike. The same logic worked for our ancestors, way back in the age of nukes, or we wouldn’t be here now talking.”

“Well, I think it stinks,” Ritu comments.

“Amen, Miss. But till the politicians finally get around to negotiating a treaty — one with real teeth for onsite inspections — what else can we do?”

It’s my turn to pose a question.

“What about the secrecy. How can it be maintained in this day and age? The Henchman Law …”

“… is designed to bring out whistle-blowers. True enough. Yet no insider’s tattled openly about this buried army. And the reason is simple, Albert. The Henchman Law is aimed against criminal activity. But don’t you think the brass in the Dodecahedron went over the legalities carefully? They never denied having a reserve defense force. There’s nothing heinous or illicit — no real people have been hurt in any way — so there’s no ‘whistle-blower’ reward. What good will it do anybody to reveal this place, then? All he’d get for the trouble is a lien slapped against his lifetime earnings, to help pay the cost of moving our golem corps to a new site.”

Chen looks at Ritu and me archly.

“And that holds for you two, by the way, in case you’re getting any self-righteous notions. We don’t mind private rumors. Go ahead and blab generalities and exaggerations to your friends, if you like. Just don’t put any pix or location details on the Net, or you could wind up deep in debt, making monthly payments to the Dodec. For life.”