Author's Note: Holy crap, look! It's a story! Yep, I've been writing again, and in my usual slightly obsessive way, the entire story is written and on my hard disk (and another hard disk for backup). Various people begged me to write something about the abandoned Soldierbot, and after some thought...this happened. The final length is 46k words, divided into two Prologues and eighteen chapters, and needless to say, you need not fear it will peter out without finishing. I will be publishing updates on Saturdays and Wednesdays, I think, because I like to make people suffer by making them wait.

I'm afraid I won't be able to illustrate this one as much as my previous stories, because I don't have the models I need. However, there are some scenes I know I'll have to create, and I'll link the url when I do.

I can't quite decide whether to call this a sequel or not. It's set after the events of Send In The Clones, but it's more a story set in the same universe than a true sequel. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Either way, if you're new to this story, I strongly recommend you start with 'You Need to Get A Head' and work your way through in sequence.

Let us begin...

Saving Private Soldierbot

Prologue: Meet The Reporter

In a time of universal deceit - telling the truth is a revolutionary act. – George Orwell

The Pauling Institute for the Betterment of Mankind, The Bahamas, 2002.

It's good work, being a news reporter. It's something I always wanted to be.

At least, most of the time. Sometimes, when things go really bad, it can be hard to take a step back and remember that reporting is helping. People need to know what's going on, and if you tell the world, maybe more people will help. More people will care. As someone once told me, 'Someone, somewhere, has to give a damn.'

Wow, I didn't mean to get so gloomy! Anyway. It's tough work to get into, lots of competition for the best posts. Of course, it helped that I'm a redhead and look good even when I haven't showered for several days and heck, they don't need to know my hair colour comes from a bottle, right? This job makes you so cynical.

So, you wanted a story? Let me tell you about one of the strangest interviews I ever did. This was way back, decades ago, when we still had to travel by cars because the teep network wasn't in place yet. I was just an ordinary freelance, hoping to sell 'human interest' stories. Those are the ones they shove in at the end of news broadcasts to make it seem like the world isn't full of misery and rage. Cat Climbs Tree and Rescues Person, that kind of thing.

It was a few months, maybe a year, after that scare with all the robots. 1972, I think? I am guessing you were just a kid then, right? Oh...not even born? God I'm old. Ok, well, the attacking robots just vanished, poof, like that, and this new institute opened up in the Bahamas: The Pauling Institute for the Betterment of Mankind. Yes, of course you've heard of it. It's famous now, but back then, nobody knew what it was, why it was there, or what the people in there were up to. They had taken over a group of small islands in the Bahamas and all the world governments were sort of quiet about it. You'd think the US would care that this business was there, paying no taxes, obeying no laws, and just sitting there, right? No. Nothing.

All of us freelancers were keen to get in there and nose about. There were so many unanswered questions: Where did the money come from? Who was this 'Pauling'? How did they have so many employees and yet had never recruited? What was the secret?

So, I sent letters, phone calls, telexes, all the usual. I bet there were hundreds of us all trying to crack that nut. For some reason, I won. I still don't know why. Maybe they just picked me out of a hat? It would be nice to think they admire my skill, but really, I was just lucky. I got a letter that simply read:

Dear Miss Aquilina,

We would be happy to give you a short interview, but we must insist on no cameras and access to the final recording for approval. We would like to extend an invitation to you to visit our main site in the Bahamas on the 15th February at 12:00.

We have many interesting projects we wish to inform the world about and we look forward to meeting you.

Yours sincerely,

(horrible squiggly signature)

The Administrator.

I thought I could make out a P in that signature, so I guessed it was Mr Pauling. Or was he Dr Pauling? Either way, I was going to meet the man himself! I remember going cold with excitement.

Yes, yes I know. But this was a different time, right? People assumed things they don't assume now, and thank God it changed. Better for my career, anyway.

It was my first big break. Of course, I didn't know how big this thing would become back then. Nobody did. I just wanted to make enough money I wouldn't have to hock my typewriter and go back to working as a secretary. As I said, I was just lucky. Journalism is like that: it's mostly luck. That and sore wrists.

So I turned up at their doorstep at the right time and the right day. I was really nervous; shaking hands, butterflies in the stomach, spending the morning stuck on the toilet, you know the drill. I had instructions on how to get there- drive to a certain point, and wait.

At midday precisely, an old blue-grey vehicle rumbled across the bridge to the main complex and stopped beside me. That was the first odd thing- why did such an expensive-looking place have a horrible beaten-up old truck like that?

A shortish man with shaven hair and a scruffy blonde beard came hopped out of the truck and waved cheerfully to me.

"Miss Aquilina?"

Yes, I know it's an unusual name. Don't ask me about it. This story is long enough already, ok?

"Yes, pleased to meet you." I replied, switching into 'reporter mode', and giving him my best charming smile. "I have an appointment to see..."

"Yeah, I know all 'bout that. Name's Dell Conagher, pleased to meet ya. Call me Dell." He extended a gloved hand and I shook it. His hand seemed odd- sort of hard and cold (the second odd thing), but I gripped it firmly. Men have this thing about handshakes- why finger strength matters, I don't know, but this is a man's world, isn't it? Or it was, back then. Still is, sometimes. "Well, aren't you a lucky gal."

"I don't know, am I?" I replied with a disarming smile tinged with just a little calculated nervousness. They never tell you this in English Lit, but you have to be able to act to be a good reporter. I played the charming, slightly dumb journalist like a professional. However, he just gave me an amused smirk, as if he saw right through my careful act. Maybe he did, for all I know. His eyes had that glitter to them that you only see in really intelligent people- the types clever enough to laugh at themselves for being smart. Have you ever seen it? Look out for it in future, ok?

"You sure are." He assured me. "We've had to pick through a whole load o' letters and yours came top. It was polite and we felt that...well, you were the one for the job."

"Very kind of you." I said nodding seriously.

"The Administrator's ready to see you. Ready for a ride?" He asked, patting the hood of the decrepit truck. "Not often I get to take the old gal out these days."

"Oh, this is your truck?"

"Sure is." He replied with a wide grin. "Bought her, took her to bits and built her from scratch. Now hold on, she can go real fast when I put my foot down." He turned the key and the engine rumbled to life with a soft hum.

"Ok, I..." Then, odd thing number three happened- he put his foot down and the engine didn't roar- it purred, like some top level sports car. The battered old truck was such a smooth ride it almost seemed to float.

Perhaps I should explain how the Institute was set out at this point. It consisted of a main tall building with a few scorch marks near the top (Odd Thing No. 4), and a number of connected buildings, all on small islands connected with bridges, like a spider's web. The big building was the only complete one, and all the smaller buildings were covered with scaffolding. Obviously, a lot of things had been built recently. I mentioned this to Conagher, and he gave that wide grin again.

"Yeah, we've had a busy few months since we got here."

"Nice place, this. Must have been great when you got recruited to this company." I commented. The man just snorted and smiled slightly.

"You could say that. Yep, you could indeed."

"Where did you work beforehand?" I asked, looking down at the sparkling sea as we crossed the bridge. It was pockmarked with what looked like bullet holes. Odd Thing No. 5.

"Well, see, that's one of those things I can't tell you." Conagher explained easily. "The Administrator will answer your questions- or not."

"Wait- you can't tell me where you last worked?" I asked in surprise. "How can that be classified?"

"Oh, no classified. Nothin' here is classified." He replied with a laugh. It was a pleasant laugh, but somehow I didn't trust the man. I was starting to wish I had brought my pistol, but interviewing people while threatening them with a gun doesn't give good results usually. "It's just we're not tellin' you. Not sure you'd believe any of it anyways."

"Try me." I insisted.

"Heck no." He said flatly, and even though he was still smiling, I knew better than to press it. "Anyway, here we are."

The truck stopped as quietly as a luxury limousine, and we got out. As I stepped down, a short, slender woman with dark hair, about the same age as me, came out of the building holding a clipboard and tapping a pen on it.

"Here she is, right on time." Conagher said.

The woman gave me a tight smile with no warmth to it, and held out her hand. I shook it, and she almost crushed my fingers.

"Pleased to meet you." She said, pushing her glasses up on her nose.

"See you around, l'il missy." Conagher said with an idle wave. I opened my mouth to tell him what I thought of being called 'Li'l Missy', but he was already walking away.

The woman by the side of me snorted. "He calls me that too. Annoying, isn't it?" She glanced sideways. "So, want to have a look around?"

"Be my pleasure." I assured her. "I can't wait to meet this Administrator of yours."

Her lips twitched. "I bet you can't. Come on, let's go inside."

The reception area was like all offices everywhere- polished floors, slightly sickly house plants, mahogany desk, the usual. There was no one behind the desk, so I guessed the women guiding me must be the receptionist. I felt slightly irritated, and wondered if my meeting with Pauling would be one of those where they just shake your hands, give a false smile and tell you to push off, while his assistant did all the work. It happens a lot, especially when you're starting out. I decided I'd just have to live with it and get the best report I could.

"Well, Miss Aquilina, I guess we can start. We invited you here because we wanted someone who would report the facts and not try to get information out of us that we're not going to share." The woman said briskly. "You're doing us a favour, and we simply ask you report what you see, and we'll tell you what we want the public to know. Deal?"

"That's what I agreed to." I said simply, privately deciding that I'd see about getting away from my guide at some point and 'get lost'. She gave me a hard look, but then shrugged.

"Through various careful and lucky investments, the Administrator was able to buy out several large multinationals, and decided that the money would be best used to fund research by the finest minds in the world, rather than just for profit."

"That makes a change."

"True." She suddenly gave a grin that softened her face and made her look a lot more friendly. "I'll admit the shareholders weren't happy at first, but we gave them a few carrots and it helped."

"'Carrots?'" I asked.

"A little early tech from our medical section: a broken leg mended within a day, a child's cleft palette fixed...enough to convince them we are worth supporting."

"A broken leg mended within a day?" I asked suspiciously.

"Let me show you one of our projects." She reached for her large handbag and took out some sort of walkie-talkie made of grey plastic. It seemed so small it could only have been a child's toy, but it beeped when she pressed it and a voice squawked out of it. I couldn't make out a word, but she seemed able to understand it just fine.

"Med..." She stopped suddenly and cleared her throat. "...Gerhardt, I've got the journalist with me. Is the medigun running?"

Squawk, squibble, hiss.

"Alright, I didn't mean to...ok, ok, it's always ready for use, I get it! Is there anyone in need of treatment?"

Hiss hiss scrabble?

"No! Don't do that, you don't need to...Medic, I said no!"

Screeth weet klup. The voice said in a placating tone.

"I don't care if he doesn't mind." She sighed and put her hand over the mic for a second. I knew the gesture well myself. "You've already done it, haven 't you? Ok, ok, just...make sure the lab is clear of... people. No, not him. You know what I mean. The others like you."

Odd Thing No.6, right there.

She turned and gave me a sudden smile. "Some of our staff are a little eccentric."

"Seems it's that way everywhere." I replied, smiling back. I decided I rather liked this woman.

"Oh, you have no idea!" She replied cheerfully. "Let me show you to the medical labs. I can show you another little bit of tech on our way."

"Hey hon, you busy?" A good-looking, slender young man suddenly burst into the room.

"Yes I am," She said shortly, "but I can give you some time from 4:35 to..."

"We got these..." Another good-looking, slender young man banged the door back and barged in behind the first one. I blinked. Not only did they have the same clothing, they were absolutely identical.

"Shit." The first one said. They glanced at each other.

"Uh...we'll..."

"...Come back later, ok?" They turned around and I saw the first one give the second a punch to his shoulder. There was a mutter of complaint as they slammed the door behind us.

"Identical twins." The receptionist explained. Her lips twitched slightly, as if she was thinking of a private joke. "We employ a lot of... twins here. Even a couple of triplets."

Odd Thing No. 7.

She strode over to a set of double doors and opened them. I looked through and my mouth opened, all the previous weirdness forgotten for a moment. I had expected stairs, or an elevator, but instead there were four spinning disks of light floating just above the floor- blue, red, white and purple. Once my initial shock had worn away, I realised there was some sort of machinery beneath them.

"What is that?!" I asked, completely forgetting to be the whole 'cool, professional journalist' for the moment.

"Teleporters." She gave me a grin, obviously enjoying my surprise. "They will instantly take you wherever you want to go within this building. Their range is- well, we don't know, actually. It seems to be continental, at least. We're still testing that. Before you ask, yes, they're completely safe. You don't have any bread on you, do you?"

In Prologue Two: The Reporter gets to see something both astonishing and disgusting, and is given an offer she can't refuse...