Beyond the trio, I glimpsed the bustle and noise of Upas Street. If only I could make it to the taxi stand, or even the police kiosk on Defense Avenue. For a small fee they’d provide refrigerated sanctuary, till my owner came for me.

“Urgent, eh?” the tall one said. “If your rig still wants you, even in this condition, I’ll bet he’d pay to get you back, eh?”

The final teen, a stocky fellow with deep brown skin and hair done in a wire cut, appeared more sympathetic.

“Aw, leave the poor greenie alone. You can see how badly it wants to get home and spill. If we stop it, the owner may fine us.”

A compelling threat. Even the albino wavered, as if about to back off.

Then Beta’s shooter in the alley fired again, hitting my thigh below the shielding trash can lid.

Anyone who has duped and inloaded knows that pseudoflesh can feel pain. Fiery agony sent me recoiling into one of the youths, who pushed me away, shouting.

“Get off, you stinky thing! Did you see that? It touched me!”

“Now you’ll pay, you piece of clay,” added the tall one. “Let’s see your tag.”

Still shuddering, I managed to hobble around so he stood between me and the alley. My pursuers wouldn’t dare shoot now, and risk hitting an archie.

“Fool,” I said. “Can’t you see I’ve been shot?”

“So?” The albino’s nostrils flared. “My dits get mangled in org-wars all the time. You don’t see me griping about it. Or bringing a fight to the Odeon, of all places! Now let’s see that tag.”

He held out a hand and I reflexively reached for the spot under my forehead where the ID implant lay. A golem-duplicate has to show his tag to a realperson, on demand. This incident was going to cost me … that is, it would cost my maker. The semantic difference would depend on whether I made it home in the next hour.