Identity Theft

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.