Identity Theft and Other Stories

by Robert J. Sawyer

  “Hey there, G.R.,” said the black man with the long gray beard. “Join me?”

  Rathburn—the Rathburn made out of carbon, that is—had entered Paradise Valley’s dining hall. The man with the beard had already been served his lunch: a lobster tail, garlic mashed potatoes, a glass of the finest Chardonnay. The food here was exquisite.

  “Hi, Dat,” Rathburn said, nodding. He envied the bearded man. His name, before he’d transferred his consciousness into a robot, had been Darius Allan Thompson, so his initials, the only version of his birth name allowed to be used here, made a nice little word—almost as good as having a real name. Rathburn took a seat at the same table. One of the ever-solicitous servers—young, female (for this table of straight men), beautiful—was already at hand, and G.R. ordered a glass of champagne. It wasn’t a special occasion—nothing was ever special in Paradise Valley—but any pleasure was available to those, like him and Dat, on the Platinum Plus maintenance plan.

  “Why so long in the face, G.R.?” asked Dat.

  “I don’t like it here.”

  Dat admired the derrière of the departing server, and took a sip of his wine. “What’s not to like?”

  “You used to be a lawyer, didn’t you? Back on the outside?”

  “I still am a lawyer on the outside,” said Dat.

  G.R. frowned, but decided not to press the point. “Can you answer some questions for me?”

  “Sure. What do you want to know?”

  G.R. entered Paradise Valley’s “hospital.” He thought of the name as being in quotation marks, since a real hospital was a place you were supposed to go to only temporarily for healing. But most of those who had uploaded their consciousness, who had shed their skins, were elderly. And when their discarded shells checked into the hospital, it was to die. But G.R. was only forty-five. With proper medical treatment, and some good luck, he had a fair chance of seeing one hundred.

  G.R. went into the waiting room. He’d watched for two weeks now, and knew the schedule, knew that little Lilly Ng—slight, Vietnamese, fifty—would be the doctor on duty. She, like Shiozaki, was staff—a real person who got to go home, to the real world, at night.

  After a short time, the receptionist said the time-honored words: “The doctor will see you now.”

  G.R. walked into the green-walled examination room. Ng was looking down at a datapad. “GR-7,” she said, reading his serial number. Of course, he wasn’t the only one with the initials G.R. in Paradise Valley, and so he had to share what faint echo of a name he still possessed with several other people. She looked at him, her gray eyebrows raised, waiting for him to confirm that that was indeed who he was.

  “That’s me,” said G.R., “but you can call me George.”

  “No,” said Ng. “I cannot.” She said it in a firm but gentle tone; presumably, she’d been down this road before with others. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “I’ve got a skin tag in my left armpit,” he said. “I’ve had it for years, but it’s started to get sensitive. It hurts when I apply roll-on deodorant, and it chafes as I move my arm.”

  Ng frowned. “Take off your shirt, please.”

  G.R. began undoing buttons. He actually had several skin tags, as well as a bunch of moles. He also had a hairy back, which he hated. One reason uploading his consciousness had initially seemed appealing was to divest himself of these dermal imperfections. The new golden robot body he’d selected—looking like a cross between the Oscar statuette and C-3PO—had no such cosmetic defects.

  As soon as the shirt was off he lifted his left arm and let Ng examine his axilla.

  “Hmm,” she said, peering at the skin tag. “It does look inflamed.”

  G.R. had brutally pinched the little knob of skin an hour before, and had twisted it as much as he could in either direction.

  Ng was now gently squeezing it between thumb and forefinger. G.R. had been prepared to suggest a treatment, but it would be better if she came up with the idea herself. After a moment, she obliged. “I can remove it for you, if you like.”

  “If you think that’s the right thing to do,” said G.R.

  “Sure,” said Ng. “I’ll give you a local anesthetic, clip it off, and cauterize the cut. No need for stitches.”

  Clip it off? No! No, he needed her to use a scalpel, not surgical scissors. Damn it!

  She crossed the room, prepared a syringe, and returned, injecting it directly into the skin tag. The needle going in was excruciating—for a few moments. And then there was no sensation at all.

  “How’s that?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  Ng put on surgical gloves, opened a cupboard, and pulled out a small leather case. She placed it on the examination table G.R. was now perched on, and opened it. It contained surgical scissors, forceps, and—

  They glinted beautifully under the lights from the ceiling.

  A pair of scalpels, one with a short blade, the other with a longer one.

  “All right,” said Ng, reaching in and extracting the scissors. “Here we go…”

  G.R. shot his right arm out, grabbing the long-bladed scalpel, and quickly swung it around, bringing it up and under Ng’s throat. Damn but the thing was sharp! He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but a shallow slit two centimeters long now welled crimson across where her Adam’s apple would have been had she been a man.

  A small scream escaped from Ng, and G.R. quickly clamped his other hand over her mouth. He could feel her shaking.

  “Do exactly as I say,” he said, “and you’ll walk out of this alive. Screw me over, and you’re dead.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Detective Dan Lucerne to Mr. Shiozaki. “I’ve handled eight hostage situations over the years, and in every case, we’ve managed a peaceful solution. We’ll get your woman back.”

  Shiozaki nodded then looked away, hiding his eyes from the detective. He should have recognized the signs in GR-7. If only he’d ordered him sedated, this never would have happened.

  Lucerne gestured toward the vidphone. “Get the examination room on this thing,” he said.

  Shiozaki reached over Lucerne’s shoulder and tapped out three numbers on the keypad. After a moment, the screen came to life, showing Ng’s hand pulling away from the camera at her end. As the hand withdrew, it was clear that G.R. still had the scalpel held to Ng’s neck.

  “Hello,” said Lucerne. “My name is Detective Dan Lucerne. I’m here to help you.”

  “You’re here to save Dr. Ng’s life,” said GR-7. “And if you do everything I want, you will.”

  “All right,” said Lucerne. “What do you want, sir?”

  “For starters, I want you to call me Mr. Rathburn.”

  “Fine,” said Lucerne. “That’s fine, Mr. Rathburn.”

  Lucerne was surprised to see the shed skin tremble in response. “Again,” GR-7 said, as if it were the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. “Say it again.”

  “What can we do for you, Mr. Rathburn?”

  “I want to talk to the robot version of me.”

  Shiozaki reached over Lucerne’s shoulder again, pushing the mute button. “We can’t allow that.”

  “Why not?” asked Lucerne.

  “Our contract with the uploaded version specifies that there will never be any contact with the shed skin.”

  “I’m not worried about fine print,” said Lucerne. “I’m trying to save a woman’s life.” He took the mute off. “Sorry about that, Mr. Rathburn.”

  GR-7 nodded. “I see Mr. Shiozaki standing behind you. I’m sure he told you that what I wanted isn’t permitted.”

  Lucerne didn’t look away from the screen, didn’t break the eye contact with the skin. “He did say that, yes. But he’s not in charge here. I’m not in charge here. It’s your show, Mr. Rathburn.”

  Rathburn visibly relaxed. Lucerne could see him back the scalpel off a bit from Ng’s neck. “That’s more like it,” he said. “All right. All right. I don’t want to kill Dr. Ng—but I will unless you bring the
robot version of me here within three hours.” He spoke out of the side of his mouth to Ng. “Break the connection.”

  A terrified-looking Ng reached her arm forward, her pale hand and simple gold wedding ring filling the field of view.

  And the screen went dead.

  George Rathburn—the silicon version—was sitting in the dark, wood-paneled living room of his large Victorian-style country house. Not that he had to sit; he never grew tired anymore. Nor did he really need his chairs to be padded. But folding his metal body into the seat still felt like the natural thing to do.

  Knowing that, barring accidents, he was now going to live virtually forever, Rathburn figured he should tackle something big and ambitious, like War and Peace or Ulysses. But, well, there would always be time for that later. Instead, he downloaded the latest Buck Doheney mystery novel into his datapad, and began to read.

  He’d only gotten halfway through the second screenful of text when the datapad bleeped, signaling an incoming call.

  Rathburn thought about just letting the pad record a message. Already, after only a few weeks of immortality, nothing seemed particularly urgent. Still, it might be Kathryn. He’d met her at the training center, while they were both getting used to their robot bodies, and to their immortality. Ironically, she’d been eighty-two before she’d uploaded; in his now-discarded flesh-and-blood shell, George Rathburn would never have had a relationship with a woman so much older than he was. But now that they were both in artificial bodies—his gold, hers a lustrous bronze—they were well on the way to a full-fledged romance.

  The pad bleeped again, and Rathburn touched the ANSWER icon—no need to use a stylus anymore; his synthetic fingers didn’t secrete oils that would leave a mark on the screen.

  Rathburn had that strange feeling he’d experienced once or twice since uploading—the feeling of deep surprise that would have been accompanied by his old heart skipping a beat. “Mr. Shiozaki?” he said. “I didn’t expect to ever see you again.”

  “I’m sorry to have to bother you, George, but we’ve—well, we’ve got an emergency. Your old body has taken a hostage here in Paradise Valley.”

  “What? My God…”

  “He’s saying he will kill the woman if we don’t let him talk to you.”

  George wanted to do the right thing, but…

  But he’d spent weeks now trying to forget that another version of him still existed. “I—um—I guess it’d be okay if you put him on.”

  Shiozaki shook his head. “No. He won’t take a phone call. He says you have to come here in person.”

  “But…but you said…”

  “I know what we told you during counseling, but, dammit, George, a woman’s life is at stake. You might be immortal now, but she isn’t.”

  Rathburn thought for another few seconds, then: “All right. All right. I can be there in a couple of hours.”

  The robot-bodied George Rathburn was shocked by what he was seeing on the vidphone in Shiozaki’s office. It was him—just as he remembered himself. His soft, fragile body; his graying temples; his receding hairline; his nose that he’d always thought was too large.

  But it was him doing something he never could have imagined doing—holding a surgical blade to a woman’s throat.

  Detective Lucerne spoke toward the phone’s pickups. “Okay,” he said. “He’s here. The other you is here.”

  On the screen, Rathburn could see his shed skin’s eyes go wide as they beheld what he’d become. Of course, that version of him had selected the golden body—but it had only been an empty shell then, with no inner workings. “Well, well, well,” said G.R. “Welcome, brother.”

  Rathburn didn’t trust his synthesized voice, so he simply nodded.

  “Come on down to the hospital,” said G.R. “Go to the observation gallery above the operating theater; I’ll go to the operating theater itself. We’ll be able to see each other—and we’ll be able to talk, man to man.”

  “Hello,” said Rathburn. He was standing on his golden legs, staring through the angled sheet of glass that overlooked the operating room.

  “Hello,” said GR-7, looking up. “Before we go any further, I need you to prove that you are who you say you are. Sorry about this, but, well, it could be anyone inside that robot.”

  “It’s me,” said Rathburn.

  “No. At best it’s one of us. But I’ve got to be sure.”

  “So ask me a question.”

  GR-7 was clearly prepared for this. “The first girl to ever give us a blowjob.”

  “Carrie,” said Rathburn, at once. “At the soccer field.”

  GR-7 smiled. “Good to see you, brother.”

  Rathburn was silent for a few moments. He swiveled his head on noiseless, frictionless bearings, looking briefly at Lucerne’s face, visible on a vidphone out of view of the observation window. Then he turned back to his shed skin. “I, ah, I understand you want to be called George.”

  “That’s right.”

  But Rathburn shook his head. “We—you and I, when we were one—shared exactly the same opinion about this matter. We wanted to live forever. And that can’t be done in a biological body. You know that.”

  “It can’t be done yet in a biological body. But I’m only 45. Who knows what technology will be available in the rest of our—of my—lifetime?”

  Rathburn no longer breathed—so he could no longer sigh. But he moved his steel shoulders while feeling the emotion that used to produce a sigh. “You know why we chose to transfer early. You have a genetic predisposition to fatal strokes. But I don’t have that—George Rathburn doesn’t have that anymore. You might check out any day now, and if we hadn’t transferred our consciousness into this body, there would have been no immortality for us.”

  “But we didn’t transfer consciousness,” said GR-7. “We copied consciousness—bit for bit, synapse for synapse. You’re a copy. I’m the original.”

  “Not as a matter of law,” said Rathburn. “You—the biological you—signed the contract that authorized the transfer of personhood. You signed it with the same hand you’re using to hold that scalpel to Dr. Ng’s throat.”

  “But I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You don’t have a mind to change. The software we called the mind of George Rathburn—the only legal version of it—has been transferred from the hardware of your biological brain to the hardware of our new body’s nano-gel CPU.” The robotic Rathburn paused. “By rights, as in any transfer of software, the original should have been destroyed.”

  GR-7 frowned. “Except that society wouldn’t allow for that, any more than it would allow for physician-assisted suicide. It’s illegal to terminate a source body, even after the brain has been transferred.”

  “Exactly,” said Rathburn, nodding his robotic head. “And you have to activate the replacement before the source dies, or else the court will determine that there’s been no continuity of personhood and dispose of the assets. Death may not be certain anymore, but taxes certainly are.”

  Rathburn had hoped GR-7 would laugh at that, hoped that a bridge could be built between them. But GR-7 simply said, “So I’m stuck here.”

  “I’d hardly call it ‘stuck,’” said Rathburn. “Paradise Valley is a little piece of heaven here on Earth. Why not just enjoy it, until you really do go to heaven?”

  “I hate it here,” said GR-7. He paused. “Look, I accept that by the current wording of the law, I have no legal standing. All right, then. I can’t make them nullify the transfer—but you can. You are a person in the eyes of the law; you can do this.”

  “But I don’t want to do it. I like being immortal.”

  “But I don’t like being a prisoner.”

  “It’s not me that’s changed,” said the android. “It’s you. Think about what you’re doing. We were never violent. We would never dream of taking a hostage, of holding a knife to someone’s throat, of frightening a woman half to death. You’re the one who has changed.”

  But the skin s
hook his head. “Nonsense. We’d just never been in such desperate circumstances before. Desperate circumstances make one do desperate things. The fact that you can’t conceive of us doing this means that you’re a flawed copy. This—this transfer process isn’t ready for prime time yet. You should nullify the copy and let me, the original, go on with your—with our—life.”

  It was now the robotic Rathburn’s turn to shake his head. “Look, you must realize that this can’t ever work—that even if I were to sign some paper that transferred our legal status back to you, there are witnesses here to testify that I’d been coerced into signing it. It would have no legal value.”

  “You think you can outsmart me?” said GR-7. “I am you. Of course I know that.”

  “Good. Then let that woman go.”

  “You’re not thinking,” said GR-7. “Or at least you’re not thinking hard enough. Come on, this is me you’re talking to. You must know I’d have a better plan than that.”

  “I don’t see…”

  “You mean you don’t want to see. Think, Copy of George. Think.”

  “I still don’t…” The robotic Rathburn trailed off. “Oh. No, no, you can’t expect me to do that.”

  “Yes, I do,” said GR-7.

  “But…”

  “But what?” The skin moved his free hand—the one not holding the scalpel—in a sweeping gesture. “It’s a simple proposition. Kill yourself, and your rights of personhood will default back to me. You’re correct that, right now, I’m not a person under the law—meaning I can’t be charged with a crime. So I don’t have to worry about going to jail for anything I do now. Oh, they might try—but I’ll ultimately get off, because if I don’t, the court will have to admit that not just me, but all of us here in Paradise Valley are still human beings, with human rights.”

  “What you’re asking is impossible.”

  “What I’m asking is the only thing that makes sense. I talked to a friend who used to be a lawyer. The personhood rights will revert if the original is still alive, but the uploaded version isn’t. I’m sure no one ever intended the law to be used for this purpose; I’m told it was designed to allow product-liability suits if the robot brain failed shortly after transfer. But regardless, if you kill yourself, I get to go back to being a free human.” GR-7 paused for a moment. “So what’s it going to be? Your pseudolife, or the real flesh-and-blood life of this woman?”