I'm as much a victim as anybody else, right?

I will make their sacrifice worthwhile.

58.

Claylight ... as something dawns on Greenie ...

A single wan star gleamed through the roughcut window, twinkling like the panel lights of a dark machine that nearly filled the room at the top of the stairs. I felt ominous vibrations through the ground, rather than my ruined ears, as the mechanism awoke. Slim objects tightened formation in the feeder magazine, each bearing scythelike crimson symbols. I wasn't too far gone yet to recognize an automatic launching system. d.a.m.n. Not good.

No, it isn't.

Perhaps you should stop it.

Instead of nagging, what I needed were ideas how. How How was I supposed to stop it! was I supposed to stop it!

b.u.t.tons glowed, about the height of a standing man's shoulder. One of them might cut the launcher from its remote controller. But how to get up there? The weapon's flank, military-smooth, offered no gripholds suitable for a one-armed man sprawled on the floor, even more hopeless than trying to climb aboard that autokiln downstairs.

"I ... can't ... " came a hoa.r.s.e whisper from my throat. "It's too far."

Then improvise.

I looked around, seeing no convenient ledge or chair to clamber on. No handy tools, or even bits of stone to throw. The cheap clothes that Aeneas Kaolin gave me, half a lifetime ago, were mostly gone, shredded to useless ribbons.

TARGETING COMMANDS ACCEPTED, said a row of dire words. COMPUTING TRAJECTORIES. There followed a series of numbers. Even in my dismal state I could recognize range and heading data.

Some maniac is shooting at the city!

I guessed Beta. Doubtless he murdered Professor Maharal in order to take over this facility. Why? Desperate because all his ditnapping schemes were collapsing, I guessed. My old foe must hope to wreak such havoc, the authorities will have more urgent ch.o.r.es than chasing down a copyright thief.

Frustrated and supine on the floor, I knew my theory made no sense, and didn't care. What mattered was stopping him. I'd give anything. My pitiful life, certainly. I already surrendered my left arm to the cause. What else could I possibly ...

A shout escaped my corroding mouth. Some things are only obvious after you think of them.

I did have one tool that might work, if I hurried.

It wasn't going to be easy ... but what is?

59.

Divine Flu ... as realAlbert confronts unpleasant news ...

The self-made army of stolen war-golems finally broke through. While Ritu and I were shepherded over the last shattered robot defenders, a dozen of Beta's scarred veterans hurried the other way, rushing to help the rear guard. How long could they resist the force battling toward us from the Base?

Not long. I had a feeling things would start happening fast.

They had better. I may not have much time.

Smoke fumed around the edges of an armored door with a big hole burned through. Waves of heat still poured from recently molten metal as we pa.s.sed into what must be the buried lair of Yosil Maharal. Ritu and I found ourselves standing on a parapet overlooking a scene that was altogether bizarre -- a grotto filled to bursting with equipment, much of it jerry-rigged by stringing together hardware with familiar UK logos.

Surely this must be the h.o.a.rd of electroceramic gear that Kaolin accused Maharal of swiping from work. What on Earth was he trying to accomplish here? What on Earth was he trying to accomplish here? I wondered. I wondered. No doubt some avenue of research that Aeneas forbade him to pursue in the company's R&D department. No doubt some avenue of research that Aeneas forbade him to pursue in the company's R&D department.

Flooding to me came foreboding words, "the curse of Frankenstein," "the curse of Frankenstein," followed by a clipped image of a mushroom cloud. followed by a clipped image of a mushroom cloud.

Huge antennalike coils funneled from all angles toward a pair of humanoid figures, splayed at opposite ends of the room, facing each other with arms pinioned wide. One of these dittos was dark red, the other a specialized shade of a gray that I sometimes wear myself. Ornate inloading apparatus festooned all over their clay bodies, though I couldn't imagine what so many souped-up linkages could be for.

Between the pair of dittos, some kind of giant clockwork mechanism kept time to the swaying of a huge pendulum. And d.a.m.n if there wasn't a golem there too, riding back and forth like a child on a swing!

That one was yelling its head off.

Those were some of the features my eyes eyes saw. More interesting were things that eyes weren't meant to see. saw. More interesting were things that eyes weren't meant to see.

First, was I already dying of some awful fever? I had felt better crossing into the lab's bright light and cooler air after that b.l.o.o.d.y tunnel. Only now, nausea waves skewered my viscera, like those gut-churning sensations that astronauts used to report, back when realfolk actually risked their lives in s.p.a.ce. Bowels clenched, nearly as hard as my teeth, which barely let escape a reedy moan.

This is it, I thought. I thought. Some fast-acting super-virus. Death in minutes. Some fast-acting super-virus. Death in minutes.

Too bad. I came so close to finding out what was going on here.

Should I have stayed home instead, and get blown up? At least it would have been quick. I never achieved my real goal, setting out on Tuesday night.

Clara, I'm sorry. I really tried -- More symptoms teemed, clouding the senses. I could swear the s.p.a.ce between the captive golems, which had seemed as clear as air moments ago, now rippled and fluttered like some dense fluid! The undulations had a dreamlike quality, impossible to pin down, like a smoke-sculptor's interpretation of manic mood swings.

I had a brief impression that battalions of identical ghostly ent.i.ties occupied the confined zone, thronging in limitless mult.i.tudes, yet somehow uncrowded, with plenty of room in their well-ordered ranks for more. Except when the pendulum pa.s.sed through. Then brusque waves roiled, transforming many of the marching figures, giving them a face.

Floating before me, I pictured the visage of Yosil Maharal.

"Albert, are you all right?" Ritu murmured, but I shook her hand away. Let her take it as anger for getting me into this fix. I just didn't want to infect her.

I didn't want anybody anybody infected. So, despite stomach convulsions, apparitions, and disorientation, I forced myself to look away from shenanigans in the center of the lab, aiming instead at the support machinery lining the grotto walls, seeking any clue about those germ agents. They were all that mattered. infected. So, despite stomach convulsions, apparitions, and disorientation, I forced myself to look away from shenanigans in the center of the lab, aiming instead at the support machinery lining the grotto walls, seeking any clue about those germ agents. They were all that mattered.

There.

Bleary-eyed, I spotted a computer. One of those expensive AI-XIX models. d.a.m.n smart for silicon. One of Maharal's chief tools, surely, maybe even a master process controller. And just the sort of thing that a fellow like me could smash to bits, without having to know specifics of how or why.

Can I make it all the way down there and do it quickly?

At least it was a goal.

A nearby Beta -- perhaps the very same war-dit who spoke to us in the tunnel -- grabbed the balcony rail and shouted in a voice whose suddenly plaintive tone surprised me. I never heard the like from Beta before.

"Yosil! Father, stop ... we had a deal!"

60.

Mixed Glazes ... grinding glazier beams ...

d.a.m.n this compulsion to recite, built into one of the golembodies that serve as mirrors to enclose the growing waveform.

A new kind of Standing Wave surges between the glazier poles. Soon it will escape confinement, bursting through these porcelain dolls with enough power to endure for weeks over a dying city, feeding on death manna from millions of extinguishing spirit flames -- a meal sufficient to complete the transition from created to Creator.

While that countdown ticks, a desperate struggle rages. What imprint will the glazier-made G.o.d carry? Whose core personality? Right now the waveform oscillates between two possible states -- two discordant definitions of I am. I am.

Yosil is with me now, our borders overlapping in unhappy swirls, like immiscible fluids. We both howl against this unnatural merging! It's like trying to inload someone else's ditto, a calamity that no one attempts twice. How can you share without agreeing on dimensions dimensions like left-right? Up-down? In-out? It's all subjective on the soulistic plane. My versions dart away at angles that have nothing in common with his. like left-right? Up-down? In-out? It's all subjective on the soulistic plane. My versions dart away at angles that have nothing in common with his.

Communion will will come, when I finally arc over this landscape as an all-transforming deity. I'll establish fair metrics that are simple, universal, then invite all to join me in a vast new cosmos! Using raw material more basic than vacuum, together we'll make stars, planets, whole new Earths. come, when I finally arc over this landscape as an all-transforming deity. I'll establish fair metrics that are simple, universal, then invite all to join me in a vast new cosmos! Using raw material more basic than vacuum, together we'll make stars, planets, whole new Earths.

But first, to win control.

I was here first, growing immeasurably during the last few hours. But my adversary knows more theory. He also has the advantage of position. With each rhythmic pa.s.s, the pendulum cuts like a blade, slicing through the glazier's soft center, the most energetic and impressionable spot.

Worse, I feel yanked by the presence of realAlbert, realAlbert, so close that his image enters me now through a set of eyes. The red ditto can actually see him, leaning on a bannister rail as he descends from a western parapet. so close that his image enters me now through a set of eyes. The red ditto can actually see him, leaning on a bannister rail as he descends from a western parapet. realAlbert looks like h.e.l.l. Sweaty and pale. Shaking. A mess. realAlbert looks like h.e.l.l. Sweaty and pale. Shaking. A mess.

With each footstep nigh, the glazier shudders!

He's my archetype ... the reason I survived erasure to reach this point.

Now he's getting in the way.

Poor Albert may have to go.

61.

Extremities ... as Greenie goes out on a limb ...

Ever try to rip your own leg off? You need motivation.

It helps if you're already falling apart.

Even so, pulling hard with my one good hand and arm, I made little progress while the nearby missile launcher ticked through its final check sequence.

Let me offer a suggestion.

Nag that it was, the voice had steered me right so far. Soon I felt a touch along my crusted skin, and within.

The appendage is no longer part of you.

Envision that.

Draw yourself back from it.

Trigger these enzymes as you go.

Like this ...

My knowledge of chemistry was rudimentary, at best. Yet somehow the instructions made sense, like recalling a lost skill. Naturally, that's how to do it, Naturally, that's how to do it, I thought, ignoring for now that the instructions came from an imaginary friend. I thought, ignoring for now that the instructions came from an imaginary friend. Simple. I must remember this. Simple. I must remember this.

All pain and fatigue fled from the leg. Amid that growing numbness, every dram of leftover energy spent itself, not melting but hardening hardening as if in a quick oven. as if in a quick oven.

My next hard tug was rewarded by a brittle cracking. Again I pulled, and the limb snapped off below the hip, trailing gooey bits of shredded soul-fabric that sparked and glittered.

In my hand now -- a near-perfect replica of a human limb in baked terracotta, bent at the knee. I hefted the thing. It was handsome, but hardly aerodynamic.

TARGET LOCKED, announced the launch-controller screen. Missile number one slid into place with its dire crimson warhead.

ARMED. PREPARING TO FIRE.

As the machine's hum rose in pitch, I knew I had one chance.

62.

The Clay's the Thing ... ... an ensemble in twenty seconds ...

Descending from the parapet, my feet were like blunt clubs at the end of mushy noodles. Waves of nausea whelmed over me as I clutched the bannister from one sweaty grip to the next. Dry-retching, I'd vomit if my stomach had been fed more than a few protein bars during the last few days. Hunger and exhaustion were factors, of course, but such a fierce decline must come from something else -- surely a rapid war plague that some arrogant Dodecs stashed at the bottom of an armored hole for safe-keeping. A tool of genocide, banned by solemn treaty. But who ever throws a weapon away?

Was my agony a taste of things to come, for millions? I had no clue what was happening in the center of the lab with all those antennas and humming tubes and pendulums swinging between crucified dittos, like some nightmare painting by Hieronymus Bosch. But I do know it involves germs, so it's gotta be evil. But I do know it involves germs, so it's gotta be evil.

That made things simple. I've got to interfere. I've got to interfere.

Only how?