The very moment that he said that, I was using the implant in my left eye to snap-record a scene. For private use, I rationalized.

Maybe I should erase it.

“Now,” Chen insists. “Let’s get you to that secure portal I promised.”

Still a bit numb from the corporal’s slanted threat, Ritu and I follow him silently past more rows of modern janissaries, silent as statues, most of them dyed in blur-pattern camouflage. Up close, you can see how big these combat-golems are! Half-again normal size, with much of the difference consisting of extra power cells, for strength, endurance, and to operate enhanced sensoria.

Though most of the figures are thick-limbed and broad-shouldered, I keep looking for Clara’s face. Surely she would have been asked to be among the templates, imbuing her skill and battle spirit into hundreds, maybe even thousands of these duplicates. I feel miffed that she never told me … at least not about the scale of all this!

Ritu continues pressing Chen as we walk.

“It seems to me there’s a danger beyond that of foreign adversaries. Isn’t this legion something of a temptation to those holding the keys? What if the Dodecs — or the President or even the Protector in Chief — ever decide that democracy is too damned inconvenient? Imagine a million fully equipped battle-golems spilling out of the ground like angry ants, capturing every city in a coup—”

“Wasn’t there a thriller about that exact scenario, a few years back? Good effects and lots of cool action, I recall. Hordes of ceramic monsters, marching about stiff-limbed, shouting in stilted voices, blasting everything in sight … except the hero, of course. Somehow they kept missing him!”

Laughing, Chen waves a long arm at the companies surrounding us. “But honestly, it’s pretty far-fetched. Because every one of these doughboys was imprinted by a licensed citizen reservist, strictly according to regulations. They have our memories and values. And it’s kind of hard to stage a coup when all your grunts are made from guys like me — and Clara — who happen to think democracy’s just fine.

“Also there are coded autodestructs, with the ciphers distributed to—”

Chen stops, shaking his head. “No, forget all the safeguards. If you can’t have faith in procedures and professionalism, then consider logic.”

“What logic is that, Corporal?”

Chen pats the plastic-sheathed flank of a nearby war-golem, perhaps one containing a duplicate of his own soul.

“The logic of expiration, Miss. Even augmented with extra fuel, a battledit like this one can’t last more than five days. A week, tops. I defy you to come up with a way to hold onto those captive cities, after that. No small group of conspirators could imprint enough replacements. And no large group could possibly keep such an undertaking secret nowadays.

“No, the purpose of this army is to absorb the first shock of an enemy surprise attack. After that, it’ll be up to the people to defend themselves and their civilization. Only they can provide enough fresh souls and raw courage to throw into an extended conflict.”

Chen shrugs. “But that was true way back in Grandpa’s day, and his grandpa before him.”

Ritu has no ready answer for this and I manage to keep silent. So Chen turns again to lead us rapidly past more regiments, one perfectly arrayed unit after another, till we lose count of their serried ranks, awed by the vast hall of mute guardians.

Ritu’s especially uncomfortable here. Edgy and distant, unlike the easy companionship of our trek across the desert together. Part of it may have to do with her own trouble in making dittos — never able to predict what will happen when she imprints. Sometimes everything goes normally — the Ritu-golem emerges enough like her to share the same ambitions and perform assigned chores, then return at day’s end for routine inloading. Other copies vanish mysteriously, only to send back cryptic taunting messages.

“Can you imagine what it’s like to be mocked by someone who knows every intimate thing you’ve ever done or thought?”

“Then why imprint at all?” I asked, during our long walk together across the wilderness.

“Don’t you see? I work at Universal Kilns! I grew up in the claynamation trade. It’s what I know. And to do business nowadays you have to copy. So I kiln a couple of golems each morning and hope for the best.

“Still, whenever it’s an urgent appointment — or something has to be done right — I try to handle it in person.”

Like this trip to investigate her father’s cabin — and the nearby site where he died. When I invited Ritu, she decided to invest a day of real lifespan. Only now we’ve been sidetracked for several, ever since that wretched “Kaolin” ambushed us on the highway. Stuck far from town, out of contact and only slowly nearing our goal. It must be frustrating for her …

… as it is for me. To come all this way and find Clara’s gone AWOL, having dashed off to poke at the ruins of my house while I’m stuck in the boonies. Dammit, I hope we reach that secure portal of Chen’s soon. I have got to find a way to get in touch -

At last!

The columns of clay soldiery finally come to an end. We emerge from the silent host, only to pass under bigger shadows — row after row of towering autokilns, presently idle, but primed to fire up quickly and bake freshly unwrapped warriors in giant batches, stimulating their élan storage cells into vigorous activity, sending whole divisions to self-sacrifice and glory.

Corporate brand logos loom over us, embossed proudly on these mechanical behemoths. No symbol is more prominent than the circled U and circled K. Yet Ritu doesn’t seem proud, just nervous, rubbing her shoulders and arms, her eyes darting left and right. Her jaw is set and tense, as if walking is an exercise of pure willpower.

Now Chen leads us through a sliding gate into yet another vast chamber where innumerable suits of armor dangle on hooks from the tracked ceiling. A forest of duralite helmet-and-carapace combos, ready to slip over bodies still puffy from the oven. We have to sidle along a narrow avenue between tracks, our shoulders brushing metal livery and leggings, jostling sets of refractory coveralls into ghostly motion.

I can’t help feeling dwarfed, like we’re children, tiptoeing through a dressing room for giants. This chamber’s even more intimidating than the assembly of golem-soldiers. Maybe because there’s no soul here. That ditto-army was human, after all. Well, a kind of human. But this armory has the chill impersonality of gears and silicon. Empty, the suits remind me disquietingly of robots — deadly unaccountable, and free of anything like conscience.

Fortunately, we make good time. Minutes later, we’re on the other side, and I’m glad to be out of there!

No sooner do we emerge from the “dressing room” than Chen beckons me to join him at the rail of a balcony. “Albert, you’ve got to see this! You’ll find it interesting, if Clara’s been any kind of influence on you.”

Joining him at the rail, I find the terrace overlooks yet a third immense gallery, some distance below this one, containing the greatest hoard of weapons I ever saw. Everything from small arms to flame guns to personal helico/raptors can be seen arrayed in neat stacks and or piled on shelves — like a huge emporium of destruction. A central library of war.

Chen shakes his head, clearly wistful.

“They insist on keeping the best stuff down here, in reserve. Just-in-case, they say. But I sure wish we could use this gear topside, during some of our regular matches. Like against those Indies we’re fighting this week. Tough bastards. It’d be great if—”

The ditcorporal stops abruptly, arching his simian head to one side.

“Did you just hear something?”