Identity Theft Read online

  We signed the security logs, and then let the technician cycle us through the air lock.

  Off in the distance, I could see the highland plateau, dark streaks marking its side. Nearby, there were two large craters and a cluster of smaller ones. There were few footprints in the rusty sand; the recent storm had obliterated the thousands that had doubtless been there earlier. We walked out about five hundred meters. I turned around briefly to look back at the transparent dome and the buildings within.

  "Sorry for dragging you out here,” said Pickover. He had a cultured British accent. “I don't want any witnesses.” Even the cheapest artificial body had built-in radio equipment, and I had a transceiver inside my helmet.

  "Ah,” I said, by way of reply. I slipped my gloved hand into the pocket containing the Smith & Wesson, and wrapped my fingers around its reassuring solidity.

  "I know you aren't just in from Earth,” said Pickover, continuing to walk. “And I know you don't work for NewYou."

  We were casting long shadows; the sun, so much tinier than it appeared from Earth, was sitting on the horizon; the sky was already purpling, and Earth itself was visible, a bright blue-white evening star.

  "Who do you think I am?” I asked.

  His answer surprised me, although I didn't let it show. “You're Alexander Lomax, the private detective."

  Well, it didn't seem to make any sense to deny it. “Yeah. How'd you know?"

  "I've been checking you out over the last few days,” said Pickover. “I'd been thinking of, ah, engaging your services."

  We continued to walk along, little clouds of dust rising each time our feet touched the ground. “What for?” I said.

  "You first, if you don't mind,” said Pickover. “Why did you come to see me?"

  He already knew who I was, and I had a very good idea who he was, so I decided to put my cards on the table. “I'm working for your wife."

  Pickover's artificial face looked perplexed. “My ... wife?"

  "That's right."

  "I don't have a wife."

  "Sure you do. You're Joshua Wilkins, and your wife's name is Cassandra."

  "What? No, I'm Rory Pickover. You know that. You called me."

  "Come off it, Wilkins. The jig is up. You transferred your consciousness into the body intended for the real Rory Pickover, and then you took off."

  "I—oh. Oh, Christ."

  "So, you see, I know. Too bad, Wilkins. You'll hang—or whatever the hell they do with transfers—for murdering Pickover."

  "No.” He said it softly.

  "Yes,” I replied, and now I pulled out my revolver. It really wouldn't be much use against an artificial body, but until quite recently Wilkins had been biological; hopefully, he was still intimidated by guns. “Let's go."

  "Where?"

  "Back under the dome, to the police station. I'll have Cassandra meet us there, just to confirm your identity."

  The sun had slipped below the horizon now. He spread his arms, a supplicant against the backdrop of the gathering night. “Okay, sure, if you like. Call up this Cassandra, by all means. Let her talk to me. She'll tell you after questioning me for two seconds that I'm not her husband. But—Christ, damn, Christ."

  "What?"

  "I want to find him, too."

  "Who? Joshua Wilkins?"

  He nodded, then, perhaps thinking I couldn't see his nod in the growing darkness, said, “Yes."

  "Why?"

  He tipped his head up, as if thinking. I followed his gaze. Phobos was visible, a dark form overhead. At last, he spoke again. “Because I'm the reason he's disappeared."

  "What?” I said. “Why?"

  "That's why I was thinking of hiring you myself. I didn't know where else to turn."

  "Turn for what?"

  Pickover looked at me. “I did go to NewYou, Mr. Lomax. I knew I was going to have an enormous amount of work to do out here on the surface now, and I wanted to be able to spend days—weeks!—in the field, without worrying about running out of air, or water, or food."

  I frowned. “But you've been here on Mars for six mears; I read that in your file. What's changed?"

  "Everything, Mr. Lomax.” He looked off in the distance. “Everything!” But he didn't elaborate on that. Instead, he said. “I certainly know this Wilkins chap you're looking for; I went to his store, and had him transfer my consciousness from my old biological body into this one. But he also kept a copy of my mind—I'm sure of that."

  I raised my eyebrows. “How do you know?"

  "Because my computer accounts have been compromised. There's no way anyone but me can get in; I'm the only one who knows the passphrase. But someone has been inside, looking around; I use quantum encryption, so you can tell whenever someone has even looked at a file.” He shook his head. “I don't know how he did it—there must be some technique I'm unaware of—but somehow Wilkins has been extracting information from the copy of my mind. That's the only way I can think of that anyone might have learned my passphrase."

  "You think Wilkins did all this to access your bank accounts? Is there really enough money in them to make it worth starting a new life in somebody else's body? It's too dark to see your clothes right now, but, if I recall correctly, they looked a bit ... shabby."

  "You're right. I'm just a poor scientist. But there's something I know that could make the wrong people rich beyond their wildest dreams."

  "And what's that?” I said.

  He continued to walk along, trying to decide, I suppose, whether to trust me. I let him think about that, and at last, Dr. Rory Pickover, who was now just a starless silhouette against a starry sky, said, in a soft, quiet voice, “I know where it is."

  "Where what is?"

  "The alpha deposit."

  "The what?"

  "Sorry,” he said. “Paleontologist's jargon. What I mean is, I've found it: I've found the mother lode. I've found the place where Weingarten and O'Reilly had been excavating. I've found the source of the best preserved, most-complete Martian fossils."

  "My God,” I said. “You'll be rolling in it."

  Perhaps he shook his head; it was now too dark to tell. “No, sir,” he said, in that cultured English voice. “No, I won't. I don't want to sell these fossils. I want to preserve them; I want to protect them from these plunderers, these ... these thieves. I want to make sure they're collected properly, scientifically. I want to make sure they end up in the best museums, where they can be studied. There's so much to be learned, so much to discover!"

  "Does Wilkins know now where this ... what did you call it? This alpha deposit is?"

  "No—at least, not from accessing my computer files. I didn't record the location anywhere but up here.” Presumably he was tapping the side of his head.

  "But you think Wilkins extracted the passphrase from a copy of your mind?"

  "He must have."

  "And now he's presumably trying to extract the location of the alpha deposit from that copy of your mind."

  "Yes, yes! And if he succeeds, all will be lost! The best specimens will be sold off into private collections—trophies for some trillionaire's estate, hidden forever from science."

  I shook my head. “But this doesn't make any sense. I mean, how would Wilkins even know that you had discovered the alpha deposit?"

  Suddenly Pickover's voice was very small. “I'd gone in to NewYou—you have to go in weeks in advance of transferring, of course, so you can tell them what you want in a new body; it takes time to custom-build one to your specifications."

  "Yes. So?"

  "So, I wanted a body ideally suited to paleontological work on the surface of Mars; I wanted some special modifications—the kinds of the things only the most successful prospectors could afford. Reinforced knees; extra arm strength for moving rocks; extended spectral response in the eyes, so that fossils will stand out better; night vision so that I could continue digging after dark; but..."

  I nodded. “But you didn't have enough money."

  "That's
right. I could barely afford to transfer at all, even into the cheapest off-the-shelf body, and so..."

  He trailed off, too angry at himself, I guess, to give voice to what was in his mind. “And so you hinted that you were about to come into some wealth,” I said, “and suggested that maybe he could give you what you needed now, and you'd make it up to him later."

  Pickover sounded sad. “That's the trouble with being a scientist; sharing information is our natural mode."

  "Did you tell him precisely what you'd found?” I asked.

  "No. No, but he must have guessed. I'm a paleontologist, I've been studying Weingarten and O'Reilly for years—all of that is a matter of public record. He must have figured out that I knew where their fossil beds are. After all, where else would a guy like me get money?” He sighed. “I'm an idiot, aren't I?"

  "Well, Mensa isn't going to be calling you any time soon."

  "Please don't rub it in, Mr. Lomax. I feel bad enough as it is, and—” His voice cracked; I'd never heard a transfer's do that before. “And now I've put all those lovely, lovely fossils in jeopardy! Will you help me, Mr. Lomax? Please say you'll help me!"

  I nodded. “All right. I'm on the case."

  * * *

  We went back into the dome, and I called Raoul Santos on my commlink, getting him to meet me at Rory Pickover's little apartment at the center of town. It was four floors up, and consisted of three small rooms—an interior unit, with no windows.

  When Raoul arrived, I made introductions. “Raoul Santos, this is Rory Pickover. Raoul here is the best computer expert we've got in New Klondike. And Dr. Pickover is a paleontologist."

  Raoul tipped his broad forehead at Pickover. “Good to meet you."

  "Thank you,” said Pickover. “Forgive the mess, Mr. Santos. I live alone. A lifelong bachelor gets into bad habits, I'm afraid.” He'd already cleared debris off of one chair for me; he now busied himself doing the same with another chair, this one right in front of his home computer.

  "What's up, Alex?” asked Raoul, indicating Pickover with a movement of his head. “New client?"

  "Yeah,” I said. “Dr. Pickover's computer files have been looked at by some unauthorized individual. We're wondering if you could tell us from where the access attempt was made."

  "You'll owe me a nice round of drinks at the Bent Chisel,” said Raoul.

  "No problem,” I said. “I'll put it on my tab."

  Raoul smiled, and stretched his arms out, fingers interlocked, until his knuckles cracked. Then he took the now-clean seat in front of Pickover's computer and began to type. “How do you lock you files?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the monitor.

  "A verbal passphrase,” said Pickover.

  "Anybody besides you know it?"

  Pickover shook his artificial head. “No."

  "And it's not written down anywhere?"

  "No, well ... not as such."

  Raoul turned his head, looking up at Pickover. “What do you mean?"

  "It's a line from a book. If I ever forgot the exact wording, I could always look it up."

  Raoul shook his head in disgust. “You should always use random passphrases.” He typed keys.

  "Oh, I'm sure it's totally secure,” said Pickover. “No one would guess—"

  Raoul interrupted. “Your passphrase being, ‘Those privileged to be present ... ‘"

  I saw Pickover's jaw drop. “My God. How did you know that?"

  Raoul pointed to some data on the screen. “It's the first thing that was inputted by the only outside access your system has had in weeks."

  "I thought passphrases were hidden from view when entered,” said Pickover.

  "Sure they are,” said Raoul. “But the comm program has a buffer; it's in there. Look."

  Raoul shifted in the chair so that Pickover could see the screen clearly over his shoulder. “That's ... well, that's very strange,” said Pickover.

  "What?"

  "Well, sure that's my passphrase, but it's not quite right."

  I loomed in to have a peek at the screen, too. “How do you mean?” I said.

  "Well,” said Pickover, “see, my passphrase is ‘Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes'—it's from the opening of The Man of Property, the first book of the Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy. I love that phrase because of the alliteration—'privilege to be present,’ ‘family festival of the Forsytes.’ Makes it easy to remember."

  Raoul shook his head in you-can't-teach-people-anything disgust. Pickover went on. “But, see, whoever it was typed in even more."

  I looked at the glowing string of letters. In full it said: Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes have seen them dine at half past eight, enjoying seven courses.

  "It's too much?” I said.

  "That's right,” said Pickover, nodding. “My passphrase ends with the word ‘Forsytes.’”

  Raoul was stroking his receding chin. “Doesn't matter,” he said. “The files would unlock the moment the phrase was complete; the rest would just be discarded—systems that principally work with spoken commands don't require you to press the enter key."

  "Yes, yes, yes,” said Pickover. “But the rest of it isn't what Galsworthy wrote. It's not even close. The Man of Property is my favorite book; I know it well. The full opening line is ‘Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes have seen that charming and instructive sight—an upper middle-class family in full plumage.'” Nothing about the time they ate, or how many courses they had."

  Raoul pointed at the text on screen, as if it had to be the correct version. “Are you sure?” he said.

  "Of course!” said Pickover. “Galsworthy's public domain; you can do a search online and see for yourself."

  I frowned. “No one but you knows your passphrase, right?"

  Pickover nodded vigorously. “I live alone, and I don't have many friends; I'm a quiet sort. There's no one I've ever told, and no one who could have ever overheard me saying it, or seen me typing it in."

  "Somebody found it out,” said Raoul.

  Pickover looked at me, then down at Raoul. “I think...” he said, beginning slowly, giving me a chance to stop him, I guess, before he said too much. But I let him go on. “I think that the information was extracted from a scan of my mind made by NewYou."

  Raoul crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Impossible."

  "What?” said Pickover, and “Why?” said I.

  "Can't be done,” said Raoul. “We know how to copy the vast array of interconnections that make up a human mind, and we know how to reinstantiate those connections in an artificial substrate. But we don't know how to decode them; nobody does. There's simply no way to sift through a digital copy of a mind and extract specific data."

  Damn! If Raoul was right—and he always was in computing matters—then all this business with Pickover was a red herring. There probably was no bootleg scan of his mind; despite his protestations of being careful, someone likely had just overheard his passphrase, and decided to go spelunking through his files. While I was wasting time on this, Joshua Wilkins was doubtless slipping further out of my grasp.

  Still, it was worth continuing this line of investigation for a few minutes more. “Any sign of where the access attempt was made?” I asked Raoul.

  He shook his head. “No. Whoever did it knew what they were doing; they covered their tracks well. The attempt came over an outside line—that's all I can tell for sure."

  I nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Raoul. Appreciate your help."

  Raoul got up. “My pleasure. Now, how ‘bout that drink."

  I opened my mouth to say yes, but then it hit me—what Wilkins must be doing. “Umm, later, okay? I've—I've got some more things to take care of here."

  Raoul frowned; he'd clearly hoped to collect his booze immediately. But I started maneuvering him toward the door. “Thanks for your help, Raoul. I really appreciate it."

  "Um, sure, Alex,” he s
aid. He was obviously aware he was being given the bum's rush, but he wasn't fighting it too much. “Anytime."

  "Yes, thank you awfully, Mr. Santos,” said Pickover.

  "No problem. If—"

  "See you later, Raoul,” I said, opening the door for him. “Thanks so much.” I tipped my nonexistent hat at him.

  Raoul shrugged, clearly aware that something was up, but not motivated sufficiently to find out what. He went through the door, and I hit the button that caused it to slide shut behind him. As soon as it was closed, I put an arm around Pickover's shoulders, and propelled him back to the computer. I pointed at the line Raoul had highlighted on the screen, and read the ending of it aloud: “’ ... dine at half past eight, enjoying seven courses.’”

  Pickover nodded. “Yes. So?"

  "Numbers are often coded info,” I said. “'Half past eight; seven courses.’ What's that mean to you?"

  "To me?” said Pickover. “Nothing. I like to eat much earlier than that, and I never have more than one course."

  "But it could be a message,” I said.

  "From who?"

  There was no easy way to tell him this. “From you to you."

  He drew his artificial eyebrows together in puzzlement. “What?"

  "Look,” I said, motioning for him to sit down in front of the computer, “Raoul is doubtless right. You can't sift a digital scan of a human mind for information."

  "But that must be what Wilkins is doing."

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “The only way to find out what's in a mind is to ask it interactively."

  "But ... but no one's asked me my passphrase."

  "No one has asked this you. But Joshua Wilkins must have transferred the extra copy of your mind into a body, so that he could deal with it directly. And that extra copy must be the one that's revealed your codes to him."

  "You mean ... you mean there's another me? Another conscious me?"

  "Looks that way."

  "But ... no, no. That's ... why, that's illegal. Bootleg copies of human beings—my God, Lomax, it's obscene!"