Identity Theft

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, 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 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.

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.”