Several private and public cameras had me in view, I bet. But well enough to make a strong ID? This greenie’s face was too bland — and blurred even more by the fists of Beta’s gang — for easy recognition. That left one choice. Take my tagged carcass where nobody could recover or ID it. Let ’em guess who started this riot.

I staggered toward the river, shouting and waving people off.

Nearing the quayside embankment, I heard a stern, amplified voice cry, “Halt!” Cop-golems carry loudspeakers where most of us have synthetic sex organs … a creepy substitution that gets your attention.

From the left, I heard several sharp twangs. A stone struck my decaying flesh while another bounced off pavement, caroming toward the real policeman. Maybe now the blues would focus on Beta’s yellows. Cool.

Then I had no more time to think as my feet ran out of surface. They kept pumping through empty space, out of habit, I guess … till I hit the murky water with a splash.

I suppose there’s one big problem with my telling this story in first person — the listener knows I made it home in one piece. Or at least to some point where I could pass on the tale. So where’s the suspense?

All right, so it didn’t end quite there, with my crashing in the river, though maybe it should have. Some golems are designed for combat, like the kind hobbyists send onto gladiatorial battlefields … or secret models they’re rumored to have in Special Forces. Other dittos, meant for hedonism, sacrifice some élan vital for hyperactive pleasure cells and high-fi memory inloading. You can pay more for a model with extra limbs or ultra senses … or one that can swim.

I’m too cheap to spring for fancy options. But a feature I always include is hyperoxygenization — my dittos can hold their breath a long time. It’s handy in a line of work where you never know if someone’s going to gas you, or throw you in the sealed trunk of a car, or bury you alive. I’ve sorbed memories of all those things. Memories I wouldn’t have today if the ditto’s brain died too soon.