Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

I stopped. I wanted to call him a son of a bitch—but he wasn’t; he was the son of a gentle, loving woman who had deserved so much better. “One way or another, you’re going down,” I said. And then it hit me, and I started to feel that maybe there was a little justice in the universe after all. “And that’s exactly right: you’re going down, to Earth.”

Ralph at last did look up, and his thin face was ashen. “What?”

“That’s what they do with anyone whose jail sentence is longer than two mears. It’s too expensive in terms of life-support costs to house criminals here for years on end.”

“I—I can’t go to Earth.”

“You won’t have any choice.”

“But—but I was born here. I’m Martian, born and raised. On Earth, I’d weigh … what? Twice what I’m used to …”

“Three times, actually. A stick-insect like you, you’ll hardly be able to walk there. You should have been doing what I do. Every morning, I work out at Gully’s Gym, over by the shipyards. But you …”

“My … my heart …”

“Yeah, it’ll be quite a strain, won’t it? Too bad …”

His voice was soft and small. “It’ll kill me, all that gravity.”

“It might at that,” I said, smiling mirthlessly. “At the very least, you’ll be bed-ridden until the end of your sorry days—helpless as a baby in a crib.”

Postscript: e-mails from the future

Despite my vow to give up shortfiction, some offers really are too good to refuse. In October 2007, I was contacted by Carol Toller, an editor at Report on Business Magazine, one of Canada’s top glossy magazines (and one that I had written for occasionally in my freelance-journalist days; my last article for them had been in 1992). For their January 2008 issue, the magazine was preparing a look at the business environment a decade down the road. They wanted me to contribute a creative piece, and offered $1.50 a word (by comparison, a really good rate for an SF story from a science-fiction publication is eight cents a word). How could I say no?

For the record, my real agent is the wonderful Ralph Vicinanza, who also represents Stephen King, the estate of Isaac Asimov, and most of the major SF writers working today—and, no, he’s never once called me “baby.”

MS GoogleHoo E-Mail

INBOX

To: Robert J. Sawyer

From: Big Name Author Multimedia Agency

Date: February 14, 2018, 9:31 a.m. EST

Subject: Going, going … gone!

Rob, baby, Happy Valentine’s Day! Oh, wait—got that dang wavy purple underline in Word: intellectual-property problem. Let me correct that:

Happy FedEx Valentine’s Day—when your love absolutely, positively has to be there overnight, heh heh.

Seriously, speaking of sponsorship, we’re closing the bidding in two hours on the beverage product placements in your next novel. Please don’t give me a hassle this time, okay, Rob? That “I’m an artiste” stuff is so last millennium; I don’t care if the character is the kind of guy who’d only drink fine wine … if you want to drink anything that isn’t rotgut, you’ll do it my way!

I’m pretty sure Coke is going to take the Canadian rights, but Pepsi in the U.S. is hot on science fiction right now, what with their billboard on the side of the International Space Station, so I suspect they’ll be the high bidder here. And just be happy that Coke and Pepsi haven’t merged yet—monopolies mean only one bid!

And, yeah, I know Pepsi pays in U.S. dollars, but, hey, those are still worth something down here even if they don’t go very far up in Toronto, and, believe me, I’m barely keeping body and soul together with the paltry 40% commission I’m charging you. What’s the greenback worth now? Forty-five cents Canadian? I swear, someday we’ll be out of this Iraq quagmire! And don’t even get me started on what we’re doing in Colombia …

Anyway, keep that BlackBerry implant of yours turned on, baby! I’ll have more news soon.

Your pal in the Big Apple™ (all rights reserved),

Jock

“Intellectual property has the shelf life of a banana.”—Bill Gates

* * *

To: Robert J. Sawyer

From: Big Name Author Multimedia Agency

Date: February 14, 2018, 11:42 a.m. EST

Subject: Your book is all wet …