Identity Theft Page 5

  "I'm going to go see if I can find him,” I said.

  "It," said Pickover, forcefully.

  "What?"

  "It. Not him. I'm the only ‘him'—the only real Rory Pickover."

  "So what do you want me to do when I find it?"

  "Erase it, of course. Shut it down.” He shuddered. “My God, Lomax, I feel so ... so violated! A stolen copy of my mind! It's the ultimate invasion of privacy..."

  "That may be,” I said. “But the bootleg is trying to tell you something. He—it—gave Wilkins the passphrase, and then tacked some extra words onto it, in order to get a message to you."

  "But I don't recognize those extra words,” said Pickover, sounding exasperated.

  "Do they mean anything to you? Do they suggest anything?"

  Pickover re-read what was on the screen. “I can't imagine what,” he said, “unless ... no, no, I'd never think up a code like that."

  "You obviously just did think of it. What's the code?"

  Pickover was quiet for a moment, as if deciding if the thought was worth giving voice. Then: “Well, New Klondike is circular in layout, right? And it consists of concentric rings of buildings. Half past eight—that would be between Eighth and Ninth Avenue, no? And seven courses—in the seventh circle out from the center? Maybe the damned bootleg is trying to draw our attention to a location, a specific place here in town."

  "Between Eighth and Ninth, eh? That's a rough area. I go to a gym near there."

  "The old shipyards,” said Pickover. “Aren't they there?"

  "Yeah.” I started walking toward the door. “I'm going to investigate."

  "I'll go with you,” said Pickover.

  I looked at him and shook my head. He would doubtless be more of a hindrance than a help. “It's too dangerous,” I said. “I should go alone."

  Pickover looked for a few moments like he was going to protest, but then he nodded. “All right. I hope you find Wilkins. But if you find another me..."

  "Yes?” I said. “What would you like me to do?"

  Pickover gazed at me with pleading eyes. “Erase it. Destroy it.” He shuddered again. “I never want to see the damned thing."

  * * *

  I had to get some sleep—damn, but sometimes I do wish I were a transfer. I took the hovertram out to my apartment, and let myself have five hours—Mars hours, admittedly, which were slightly longer than Earth ones—and then headed out to the old shipyards. The sun was just coming up as I arrived there. The sky through the dome was pink in the east and purple in the west.

  Some active maintenance and repair work was done on spaceships here, but most of these ships were no longer spaceworthy and had been abandoned. Any one of them would make a good hideout, I thought; spaceships were shielded against radiation, making it hard to scan through their hulls to see what was going on inside.

  The shipyards were large fields holding vessels of various sizes and shapes. Most were streamlined—even Mars's tenuous atmosphere required that. Some were squatting on tail fins; some were lying on their bellies; some were supported by articulated legs. I tried every hatch I could see on these craft, but, so far, they all had their air locks sealed tightly shut.

  Finally, I came to a monstrous abandoned spaceliner—a great hull, some three hundred meters long, fifty meters wide, and a dozen meters high. The name Mayflower II was still visible in chipped paint near the bow—which is the part I came across first—and the slogan “Mars or Bust!” was also visible.

  I walked a little farther alongside the hull, looking for a hatch, until—

  Yes! I finally understood what a fossil hunter felt like when he at last turned up a perfectly preserved rhizomorph. There was an outer airlock door here, and it was open. The other door, inside, was open, too. I stepped through the chamber, entering the ship proper. There were stands for holding space suits, but the suits themselves were long gone.

  I walked over to the far end of the room, and found another door—one of those submarine-style ones with a locking wheel in the center. This one was closed, and I figured it would probably have been sealed shut at some point, but I tried to turn the wheel anyway, just to be sure, and damned if it didn't spin freely, disengaging the locking bolts. I pulled the door open, and stepped through it, into a corridor. The door was on spring-loaded hinges; as soon as I let go of it, it closed behind me, plunging me into darkness.

  Of course, I'd brought a flashlight. I pulled it off my belt and thumbed it on.

  The air was dry and had a faint odor of decay to it. I headed down the corridor, the pool of illumination from my flashlight going in front of me, and—

  A squealing noise. I swung around, and the beam from my flashlight caught the source before it scurried away: a large brown rat, its eyes two tiny red coals in the light. People had been trying to get rid of the rats—and cockroaches and silverfish and other vermin that had somehow made it here from Earth—for mears.

  I turned back around and headed deeper into the ship. The floor wasn't quite level: it dipped a bit to—to, starboard, they'd call it—and I also felt that I was gaining elevation as I walked along. The ship's floor had no carpeting; it was just bare, smooth metal. Oily water pooled along the starboard side; a pipe must have ruptured at some point. Another rat scurried by up ahead; I wondered what they ate here, aboard the dead hulk of the ship.

  I thought I should check in with Pickover—let him know where I was. I activated my commlink, but the display said it was unable to connect. Of course: the radiation shielding in the spaceship's hull kept signals from getting out.

  It was getting awfully cold. I held my flashlight straight up in front of my face, and saw that my breath was now coming out in visible clouds. I paused and listened. There was a steady dripping sound: condensation, or another leak. I continued along, sweeping the flashlight beam left and right in good detective fashion as I did so.

  There were doors at intervals along the corridor—the automatic sliding kind you usually find aboard spaceships. Most of these panels had been pried open, and I shone my flashlight into each of the revealed rooms. Some were tiny passenger quarters, some were storage, one was a medical facility—all the equipment had been removed, but the examining beds betrayed the room's function.

  I checked yet another set of quarters, then came to a closed door, the first one I'd seen along this hallway.

  I pushed the open button, but nothing happened; the ship's electrical system was dead. Of course, there was an emergency handle, recessed into the door's thickness. I could have used three hands just then: one to hold my flashlight, one to hold my revolver, and one to pull on the handle. I tucked the flashlight into my right armpit, held my gun with my right hand, and yanked on the recessed handle with my left.

  The door hardly budged. I tried again, pulling harder—and almost popped my arm out of its socket. Could the door's tension control have been adjusted to require a transfer's strength to open it? Perhaps.

  I tried another pull, and to my astonishment, light began to spill out from the room. I'd hoped to just yank the door open, taking advantage of the element of surprise, but the damned thing was only moving a small increment with each pull of the handle. If there was someone on the other side, and he or she had a gun, it was no doubt now leveled directly at the door.

  I stopped for a second, shoved the flashlight into my pocket, and—damn, I hated having to do this—holstered my revolver so that I could free up my other hand to help me pull the door open. With both hands now gripping the recessed handle, I pulled with all my strength, letting out an audible grunt as I did so.

  The light from within stung my eyes; they'd grown accustomed to the soft beam from the flashlight. Another pull, and the door panel had now slid far enough into the wall for me to slip into the room by turning sideways. I took out my gun, and let myself in.

  A voice, harsh and mechanical, but no less pitiful for that: "Please..."

  My eyes swung to the source of the sound. There was a worktable, with a blac
k top, attached to the far wall. And strapped to that table—

  Strapped to that table was a transfer's synthetic body. But this wasn't like the fancy, almost-perfect simulacrum that my client Cassandra inhabited. This was a crude, simple humanoid form, with a boxy torso and limbs made up of cylindrical metal segments. And the face—

  The face was devoid of any sort of artificial skin. The eyes, blue in color and looking startlingly human, were wide, and the teeth looked like dentures loose in the head. The rest of the face was a mess of pulleys and fiber optics, of metal and plastic.

  "Please ... “ said the voice again. I looked around the rest of the room. There was a fusion battery, about the size of a softball, with several cables snaking out of it, including some that led to portable lights. There was also a closet, with a simple door. I pulled it open—this one slid easily—to make sure no one else had hidden in there while I was coming in. An emaciated rat that had been trapped there at some point scooted out of the closet, and through the still partially open corridor door.

  I turned my attention to the transfer. The body was clothed in simple denim pants and a T-shirt.

  "Are you okay?” I said, looking at the skinless face.

  The metal skull moved slightly left and right. The plastic lids for the glass eyeballs retracted, making the non-face into a caricature of imploring. "Please ... , “ he said for a third time.

  I looked at the metal restraints holding the artificial body in place: thin nylon bands, pulled taut, that were attached to the tabletop. I couldn't see any release mechanism. “Who are you?” I said.

  I was half-prepared for the answer, of course. “Rory Pickover.” But it didn't sound anything like the Rory Pickover I'd met: the cultured British accent was absent, and this synthesized voice was much higher pitched.

  Still, I shouldn't take this sad thing's statement at face value—especially since it had hardly any face. “Prove it,” I said. “Prove you're Rory Pickover."

  The glass eyes looked away. Perhaps the transfer was thinking of how to satisfy my demand—or perhaps he was just avoiding my eyes. “My citizenship number is 48394432."

  I shook my head. “No good,” I said. “It's got to be something only Rory Pickover would know."

  The eyes looked back at me, the plastic lids lowered, perhaps in suspicion. “It doesn't matter who I am,” he said. “Just get me out of here."

  That sounded reasonable on the surface of it, but if this was another Rory Pickover...

  "Not until you prove your identity to me,” I said. “Tell me where the alpha deposit is."

  "Damn you,” said the transfer. “The other way didn't work, so now you're trying this.” The mechanical head looked away. “But this won't work, either."

  "Tell me where the alpha deposit is,” I said, “and I'll free you."

  "I'd rather die,” he said. And then, a moment later, he added wistfully, “Except..."

  I finished the thought for him. “Except you can't."

  He looked away again. It was hard to feel for something that looked so robotic; that's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it. “Tell me where O'Reilly and Weingarten were digging. Your secret is safe with me."

  He said nothing. The gun in my hand was now aimed at the robotic head. “Tell me!” I said. “Tell me before—"

  Off in the distance, out in the corridor: the squeal of a rat, and—

  Footfalls.

  The transfer heard them, too. Its eyes darted left and right in what looked like panic.

  "Please,” he said, lowering his volume. As soon as he started speaking, I put a vertical index finger to my lips, indicating that he should be quite, but he continued: “Please, for the love of God, get me out of here. I can't take any more."

  I made a beeline for the closet, stepping quickly in and pulling that door most of the way shut behind me. I positioned myself so that I could see—and, if necessary, shoot—through the gap. The footfalls were growing louder. The closet smelled of rat. I waited.

  I heard a voice, richer, more human, than the supposed Pickover's. “What the—?"

  And I saw a person—a transfer—slipping sideways into the room, just as I had earlier. I couldn't yet see the face from this angle, but it wasn't Joshua. The body was female, and I could see that she was a brunette. I took in air, held it, and—

  And she turned, showing her face now. My heart pounded. The delicate features. The wide-spaced green eyes.

  Cassandra Wilkins.

  My client.

  She'd been carrying a flashlight, which she set now on another, smaller table. “Who's been here, Rory?” Her voice was cold.

  "No one,” he said.

  "The door was open."

  "You left it that way. I was surprised, but...” He stopped, perhaps realizing to say any more would be a giveaway that he was lying.

  She tilted her head slightly. Even with a transfer's strength, that door must be hard to close. Hopefully she'd find it plausible that she'd given the handle a final tug, and had only assumed that the door had closed completely when she'd last left. Of course, I immediately saw the flaw with that story: you might miss the door not clicking into place, but you wouldn't fail to notice that light was still spilling out into the corridor. But most people don't consider things in such detail; I'd hoped she'd buy Pickover's suggestion.

  And, after a moment more's reflection, she seemed to do just that, nodding her head, apparently to herself, then moving closer to the table onto which the synthetic body was strapped. “We don't have to do this again,” said Cassandra. “If you just tell me..."

  She let the words hang in the air for a moment, but Pickover made no response. Her shoulders moved up and down a bit in a philosophical shrug. “It's your choice,” she said. And then, to my astonishment, she hauled back her right arm and slapped Pickover hard across the robotic face, and—

  And Pickover screamed.

  It was a long, low, warbling sound, like sheet-metal being warped, a haunted sound, an inhuman sound.

  "Please ... “ he hissed again, the same plaintive word he'd said to me, the word I, too, had ignored.

  Cassandra slapped him again, and again he screamed. Now, I've been slapped by lots of women over the years: it stings, but I've never screamed. And surely an artificial body was made of sterner stuff than me.

  Cassandra went for a third slap. Pickover's screams echoed in the dead hulk of the ship.

  "Tell me,” she said.

  I couldn't see his face; her body was obscuring it. Maybe he shook his head. Maybe he just glared defiantly. But he said nothing.

  She shrugged again; they'd obviously been down this road before. She moved to one side of the bed and stood by his right arm, which was pinned to his body by the nylon strap. “You really don't want me to do this,” she said. “And I don't have to, if...” She let the uncompleted offer hang there for a few seconds, then: “Ah, well.” She reached down with her beige, realistic-looking hand, and wrapped three of her fingers around his right index finger. And then she started bending it backward.

  I could see Pickover's face now. Pulleys along his jawline were working; he was struggling to keep his mouth shut. His glass eyes were rolling up, back into his head, and his left leg was shaking in spasms. It was a bizarre display, and I alternated moment by moment between feeling sympathy for the being lying there, and feeling cool detachment because of the clearly artificial nature of the body.

  Cassandra let go of Pickover's index finger, and, for a second, I thought she was showing some mercy. But then she grabbed it as well as the adjacent finger, and began bending them both back. This time, despite his best efforts, guttural, robotic sounds did escape from Pickover.

  "Talk!” Cassandra said. "Talk!"

  I'd recently learned—from Cassandra herself—that artificial bodies had to have pain sensors; otherwise, a robotic hand might end up resting on a heating element, or too much pressure might be put on a joint. But I hadn't expected such sensors to be so sensitive, and—

>   And then it hit me, just as another of Pickover's warbling screams was torn from him. Cassandra knew all about artificial bodies; she sold them, after all. If she wanted to adjust the mind-body interface of one so that pain would register particularly acutely, doubtless she could. I'd seen a lot of evil things in my time, but this was perhaps the worst. Scan a mind, put it in a body wired for hypersensitivity to pain, and torture it until it gave up its secrets. Then, of course, you just wipe the mind, and—

  "You will crack eventually, you know,” she said, almost conversationally, as she looked at Pickover's fleshless face. “Given that it's inevitable, you might as well just tell me what I want to know."

  The elastic bands that served as some of Pickover's facial muscles contracted, his teeth parted, and his head moved forward slightly but rapidly. I thought for half a second that he was incongruously blowing her a kiss, but then I realized what he was really trying to do: spit at her. Of course, his dry mouth and plastic throat were incapable of generating moisture, but his mind—a human mind, a mind accustomed to a biological body—had summoned and focused all its hate into that most primal of gestures.

  "Very well,” said Cassandra. She gave his fingers one more nasty yank backwards, holding them at an excruciating angle. Pickover alternated screams and whimpers. Finally, she let his fingers go. “Let's try something different,” she said. She leaned over him. With her left hand, she pried his right eyelid open, and then she jabbed her right thumb into that eye. The glass sphere depressed into the metal skull, and Pickover screamed again. The artificial eye was presumably much tougher than a natural one, but, then again, the thumb pressing into it was also tougher. I felt my own eyes watering in a sympathetic response.

  Pickover's artificial spine arched up slightly, as he convulsed against the two restraining bands. From time to time, I got clear glimpses of Cassandra's face, and the perfectly symmetrical artificial smile of glee on it was almost as sickening.

  At last, she stopped grinding her thumb into his eye. “Had enough?” she said. Because if you haven't..."

  Pickover was indeed still wearing clothing; it was equally gauche to walk the streets nude whether you were biological or artificial. But now, Cassandra's hands moved to his waist. I watched as she undid his belt, unsnapped and unzipped his jeans, and then pulled the pants as far down his metallic thighs as they would go before she reached the restraining strap that held his legs to the table. Transfers had no need for underwear, and Pickover wasn't wearing any. His artificial penis and testicles now lay exposed. I felt my own scrotum tightening in dread.