Identity Theft

by Robert J. Sawyer

  The Bent Chisel was a little hellhole off of Fourth Avenue, in the sixth concentric ring of buildings. I made sure I had my revolver, and that it was loaded, before I entered. The bartender was a surly man named Buttrick, a biological who had more than his fair share of flesh, and blood as cold as ice. He wore a sleeveless black shirt, and had a three-day growth of salt-and-pepper beard. “Lomax,” he said, acknowledging my entrance. “No broken furniture this time, right?"

  I held up three fingers. “Scout's honor."

  Buttrick held up one finger.

  "Hey,” I said. “Is that any way to treat one of your best customers?"

  "My best customers,” said Buttrick, polishing a glass with a ratty towel, “pay their tabs."

  "Yeah,” I said, stealing a page from Sgt. Huxley's Guide to Witty Repartee. “Well.” I headed on in, making my way to the back of the bar, where my favorite booth was located. The waitresses here were topless, and soon enough one came over to see me. I couldn't remember her name offhand, although we'd slept together a couple of times. I ordered a scotch on the rocks; they normally did that with carbon-dioxide ice here, which was much cheaper than water ice on Mars. A few minutes later, Raoul Santos arrived. “Hey,” he said, taking a seat opposite me. “How's tricks?"

  "Fine,” I said. “She sends her love."

  Raoul made a puzzled face, then smiled. “Ah, right. Cute. Listen, don't quit your day job."

  "Hey,” I said, placing a hand over my heart, “you wound me. Down deep, I'm a stand-up comic."

  "Well,” said Raoul, “I always say people should be true to their innermost selves, but..."

  "Yeah?” I said. “What's your innermost self?"

  "Me?” Raoul raised his eyebrows. “I'm pure genius, right to the very core."

  I snorted, and the waitress reappeared. She gave me my glass. It was just a little less full than it should have been: either Buttrick was trying to curb his losses on me, or the waitress was miffed that I hadn't acknowledged our former intimacy. Raoul placed his order, talking directly into the woman's breasts. Boobs did well in Mars gravity; hers were still perky even though she had to be almost forty.

  "So,” said Raoul, looking over steepled fingers at me. “What's up?” His face consisted of a wide forehead, long nose, and receding chin; it made him look like he was leaning forward even when he wasn't.

  I took a swig of my drink. “Tell me about this transferring game."

  "Ah, yes,” said Raoul. “Fascinating stuff. Thinking of doing it?"

  "Maybe someday,” I said.

  "You know, it's supposed to pay for itself within three mears,” he said, “'cause you no longer have to pay life-support tax after you've transferred."

  I was in arrears on that, and didn't like to think about what would happen if I fell much further behind. “That'd be a plus,” I said. “What about you? You going to do it?"

  "Sure. I want to live forever; who doesn't? ‘Course, my dad won't like it."

  "Your dad? What's he got against it?"

  Raoul snorted. “He's a minister."

  "In whose government?” I asked.

  "No, no. A minister. Clergy."

  "I didn't know there were any of those left, even on Earth,” I said.

  "He is on Earth, but, yeah, you're right. Poor old guy still believes in souls."

  I raised my eyebrows. “Really?"

  "Yup. And because he believes in souls, he has a hard time with this idea of transferring consciousness. He would say the new version isn't the same person."

  I thought about what the supposed suicide note said. “Well, is it?"

  Raoul rolled his eyes. “You, too? Of course it is! The mind is just software—and since the dawn of computing, software has been moved from one computing platform to another by copying it over, then erasing the original."

  I frowned, but decided to let that go for the moment. “So, if you do transfer, what would you have fixed in your new body?"

  Raoul spread his arms. “Hey, man, you don't tamper with perfection."

  "Yeah,” I said. “Sure. Still, how much could you change things? I mean, say you're a midget; could you choose to have a normal-sized body?"

  "Sure, of course."

  I frowned. “But wouldn't the copied mind have trouble with your new size?"

  "Nah,” said Raoul. The waitress returned. She bent over far enough while placing Raoul's drink on the table that her breast touched his bare forearm; she gave me a look that said, “See what you're missing, tiger?” When she was gone, Raoul continued. “See, when we first started copying consciousness, we let the old software from the old mind actually try to directly control the new body. It took months to learn how to walk again, and so on."

  "Yeah, I read something about that, years ago,” I said.

  Raoul nodded. “Right. But now we don't let the copied mind do anything but give orders. The thoughts are intercepted by the new body's main computer. That unit runs the body. All the transferred mind has to do is think that it wants to pick up this glass, say.” He acted out his example, and took a sip, then winced in response to the booze's kick. “The computer takes care of working out which pulleys to contract, how far to reach, and so on."

  "So you could indeed order up a body radically different from your original?” I said.

  "Absolutely,” said Raoul. He looked at me through hooded eyes. “Which, in your case, is probably the route to go."

  "Damn,” I said.

  "Hey, don't take it seriously,” he said, taking another sip, and allowing himself another pleased wince. “Just a joke."

  "I know,” I said. “It's just that I was hoping it wasn't that way. See, this case I'm on: the guy I'm supposed to find owns the NewYou franchise here."

  "Yeah?” said Raoul.

  "Yeah, and I think he deliberately transferred his scanned mind into some body other than the one that he'd ordered up for himself."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "He faked the death of the body that looked like him—and, I think he'd planned to do that all along, because he never bothered to order up any improvements to his face. I think he wanted to get away, but make it look like he was dead, so no one would be looking for him anymore."

  "And why would he do that?"

  I frowned, then drank some more. “I'm not sure."

  "Maybe he wanted to escape his spouse."

  "Maybe—but she's a hot little number."

  "Hmm,” said Raoul. “Whose body do you think he took?"

  "I don't know that, either. I was hoping the new body would have to be at least roughly similar to his old one; that would cut down on the possible suspects. But I guess that's not the case."

  "It isn't, no."

  I nodded, and looked down at my drink. The dry-ice cubes were sublimating into white vapor that filled the top part of the glass.

  "Something else is bothering you,” said Raoul. I lifted my head, and saw him taking a swig of his drink. A little bit of amber liquid spilled out of his mouth and formed a shiny bead on his recessed chin. “What is it?"

  I shifted a bit. “I visited NewYou yesterday. You know what happens to your original body after they move your mind?"

  "Sure,” said Raoul. “Like I said, there's no such thing as moving software. You copy it, then delete the original. They euthanize the biological version, once the transfer is made, by frying the original brain."

  I nodded. “And if the guy I'm looking for put his mind into the body intended for somebody else's mind, and that person's mind wasn't copied anywhere, then...” I took another swig of my drink. “Then it's murder, isn't it? Souls or no souls—it doesn't matter. If you shut down the one and only copy of someone's mind, you've murdered that person, right?"

  "Oh, yes,” said Raoul. “Deader than Mars itself is now."

  I glanced down at the swirling fog in my glass. “So I'm not just looking for a husband who's skipped out on his wife,” I said. “I'm looking for a cold-blooded killer."

  * * *


  I went by NewYou again. Cassandra wasn't in—but that didn't surprise me; she was a grieving widow now. But Horatio Fernandez—he of the massive arms—was on duty.

  "I'd like a list of all the people who were transferred the same day as Joshua Wilkins,” I said.

  He frowned. “That's confidential information."

  There were several potential customers milling about. I raised my voice so they could hear. “Interesting suicide note, wasn't it?"

  Fernandez grabbed my arm and led me quickly to the side of the room. “What the hell are you doing?” he whispered angrily.

  "Just sharing the news,” I said, still speaking loudly, although not quite loud enough now, I thought, for the customers to hear. “People thinking of uploading should know that it's not the same—at least, that's what Joshua Wilkins said in that note."

  Fernandez knew when he was beaten. The claim in the putative suicide note was exactly the opposite of NewYou's corporate position: transferring was supposed to be flawless, conferring nothing but benefits. “All right, all right,” he hissed. “I'll pull the list for you."

  "Now that's service,” I said. “They should name you employee of the month."

  He led me into the back room and spoke to a computer. terminal. I happened to overhear the passphrase for accessing the customer database; it was just six words—hardly any security at all.

  Eleven people had moved their consciousnesses into artificial bodies that day. I had him transfer the files on each of the eleven into my wrist commlink. “Thanks,” I said, doing that tip-of-the-nonexistent-hat thing I do. Even when you've forced a man to do something, there's no harm in being polite.

  * * *

  If I was right that Joshua Wilkins had appropriated the body of somebody else who had been scheduled to transfer the same day, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out who's body he'd taken; all I had to do, I figured, was interview each of the eleven.

  My first stop, purely because it happened to be the nearest, was the home of a guy named Stuart Berling, a full-time fossil hunter. He must have had some recent success, if he could afford to transfer.

  Berling's home was part of a row of townhouses off Fifth Avenue, in the fifth ring. I pushed his door buzzer, and waited impatiently for a response. At last he appeared. If I wasn't so famous for my poker face, I'd have done a double take. The man who greeted me was a dead ringer for Krikor Ajemian, the holovid star—the same gaunt features and intense eyes, the same mane of dark hair, the same tightly trimmed beard and mustache. I guess not everyone wanted to keep even a semblance of their original appearance.

  "Hello,” I said. “My name is Alexander Lomax. Are you Stuart Berling?"

  The artificial face in front of me surely was capable of smiling, but choose not to. “Yes. What do you want?"

  "I understand you only recently transferred your consciousness into this body."

  A nod. “So?"

  "So, I work for the NewYou—the head office on Earth. I'm here to check up on the quality of the work done by our franchise here on Mars.” Normally, this was a good technique. If Berling was who he said he was, the question wouldn't faze him. But if we was really Joshua Wilkins, he'd know I was lying, and his expression might betray this. But transfers didn't have faces that were as malleable; if this person was startled or suspicious, nothing in his plastic features indicated it.

  "So?” Berling said again.

  "So I'm wondering if you were satisfied by the work done for you?"

  "It cost a lot,” said Berling.

  I smiled. “Yes, it does. May I come in?"

  He considered this for a few moments, then shrugged. “Sure, why not?” He stepped aside.

  His living room was full of work tables, covered with reddish rocks from outside the dome. A giant lens on an articulated arm was attached to one of the work tables, and various geologist's tools were scattered about.

  "Finding anything interesting?” I asked, gesturing at the rocks.

  "If I was, I certainly wouldn't tell you,” said Berling, looking at me sideways in the typical paranoid-prospector's way.

  "Right,” I said. “Of course. So, are you satisfied with the NewYou process?"

  "Sure, yeah. It's everything they said it would be. All the parts work."

  "Thanks for your help,” I said, pulling out my PDA to make a few notes, and then frowning at its blank screen. “Oh, damn,” I said. “The silly thing has a loose fusion pack. I've got to open it up and reseat it.” I showed him the back of the unit's case. “Do you have a little screwdriver that will fit that?"

  Everybody owned some screwdrivers, even though most people rarely needed them, and they were the sort of thing that had no standard storage location. Some people kept them in kitchen drawers, others kept them in tool chests, still others kept them under the bathroom sink. Only a person who had lived in this home for a while would know where they were.

  Berling peered at the little slot-headed screw, then nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Hang on."

  He made an unerring beeline for the far-side of the living room, going to a cabinet that had glass doors on its top half, but solid metal ones on its bottom. He bent over, opened one of the metal doors, reached in, rummaged for a bit, and emerged with the appropriate screwdriver.

  "Thanks,” I said, opening the case in such a way that he couldn't see inside. I then surreptitiously removed the little bit of plastic I'd used to insulate the fusion battery from the contact it was supposed to touch. Meanwhile, without looking up, I said, “Are you married, Mr. Berling?” Of course, I already knew the answer was yes; that fact was in his NewYou file.

  He nodded.

  "Is your wife home?"

  His artificial eyelids closed a bit. “Why?"

  I told him the honest truth, since it fit well with my cover story: “I'd like to ask her whether she can perceive any differences between the new you and the old."

  Again, I watched his expression, but it didn't change. “Sure, I guess that'd be okay.” He turned and called over his shoulder, “Lacie!"

  A few moments later, a homely flesh-and-blood woman of about fifty appeared. “This person is from the head office of NewYou,” said Berling, indicating me with a pointed finger. “He'd like to speak to you."

  "About what?” asked Lacie. She had a deep, not-unpleasant voice.

  "Might we speak in private?” I said.

  Berling's gaze shifted from Lacie to me, then back to Lacie. “Hrmpph,” he said, but then, a moment later, added, “I guess that'd be all right.” He turned around and walked away.

  I looked at Lacie. “I'm just doing a routine follow-up,” I said. “Making sure people are happy with the work we do. Have you noticed any changes in your husband since he transferred?"

  "Not really."

  "Oh?” I said. “If there's anything at all...” I smiled reassuringly. “We want to make the process as perfect as possible. Has he said anything that's surprised you, say?"

  Lacie crinkled her face. “How do you mean?"

  "I mean, has he used any expressions or turns of phrase you're not used to hearing from him?"

  A shake of the head. “No."

  "Sometimes the process plays tricks with memory. Has he failed to know something he should know?"

  "Not that I noticed,” said Lacie.

  "What about the reverse? Has he known anything that you wouldn't expect him to know?"

  She lifted her eyebrows. “No. He's just Stuart."

  I frowned. “No changes at all?"

  "No, none ... well, almost none."

  I waited for her to go on, but she didn't, so I prodded her. “What is it? We really would like to know about any difference, any flaw in our transference process."

  "Oh, it's not a flaw,” said Lacie, not meeting my eyes.

  "No? Then what?"

  "It's just that..."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, just that he's a demon in the sack now. He stays hard forever."

  I frowned, disa
ppointed not to have found what I was looking for on the first try. But I decided to end the masquerade on a positive note. “We aim to please, ma'am. We aim to please."

  * * *

  I spent the next several hours interviewing four other people; none of them seemed to be anyone other than who they claimed to be.

  Next on my list was Dr. Rory Pickover, whose home was an apartment in the innermost circle of buildings, beneath the highest point of the dome. He lived alone, so there was no spouse or child to question about any changes in him. That made me suspicious right off the bat: if one were going to choose an identity to appropriate, it ideally would be someone without close companions. He also refused to meet me at his home, meaning I couldn't try the screwdriver trick on him.

  I thought we might meet at a coffee shop or a restaurant—there were lots in New Klondike, although none were doing good business these days. But he insisted we go outside the dome—out onto the Martian surface. That was easy for him; he was a transfer now. But it was a pain in the ass for me; I had to rent a surface suit.

  We met at the south air lock just as the sun was going down. I suited up—surface suits came in three stretchy sizes; I took the largest. The fish-bowl helmet I rented was somewhat frosted on one side; sandstorm-scouring, no doubt. The air tanks, slung on my back, were good for about four hours. I felt heavy in the suit, even though in it I still weighed only about half of what I had back on Earth.

  Rory Pickover was a paleontologist—an actual scientist, not a treasure-seeking fossil hunter. His pre-transfer appearance had been almost stereotypically academic: a round, soft face, with a fringe of graying hair. His new body was lean and muscular, and he had a full head of dark brown hair, but the face was still recognizably his. He was carrying a geologist's hammer, with a wide, flat blade; I rather suspected it would nicely smash my helmet. I had surreptitiously transferred the Smith & Wesson from the holster I wore under my jacket to an exterior pocket on the rented surface suit, just in case I needed it while we were outside.