Identity Theft and Other Stories

by Robert J. Sawyer

  “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. 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 whose 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 chose 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 he were 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 mo
ments 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, disappointed 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 airlock 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.

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

  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.”