Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

In 2002, to commemorate both John’s retirement and the thirtieth anniversary of the store, he asked all his past and present employees who’d gone on to writing careers to each contribute a story to a limited-edition anthology. I wrote this story for that book, and—in a rare turn of events—managed to interest Analog Science Fiction and Fact in reprinting it.

I found the themes and ideas in this story echoing in my head long after I finished writing it. Indeed, I gave a copy of the story to my novel editor at Tor, David G. Hartwell, saying I’d like a contract to revisit the same subject matter at novel length; my agent Ralph Vicinanza, of course, intervened, adding that Rob wanted more money than he’d ever been paid before for a book to do this. Tor said okay, and my novel Mindscan was born. I think it’s one of my best books (and it won the John W Campbell Memorial Award for Best Novel of the Year)—and it has its roots here.

“Shed Skin” was a finalist for the Hugo Award for Best Short Story of the Year, and won Analog magazine’s “AnLab” award—the annual Analytical Laboratory readers’ choice poll.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Shiozaki, as he leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at the middle-aged white man with the graying temples, “but there’s nothing I can do for you.”

“But I’ve changed my mind,” said the man. He was getting red in the face as the conversation went on. “I want out of this deal.”

“You can’t change your mind,” said Shiozaki. “You’ve moved your mind.”

The man’s voice had taken on a plaintive tone, although he was clearly trying to suppress it. “I didn’t think it would be like this.”

Shiozaki sighed. “Our psychological counselors and our lawyers went over the entire procedure and all the ramifications with Mr. Rathburn beforehand. It’s what he wanted.”

“But I don’t want it anymore.”

“You don’t have any say in the matter.”

The white man placed a hand on the table. The hand was flat, the fingers splayed, but it was nonetheless full of tension. “Look,” he said, “I demand to see—to see the other me. I’ll explain it to him. He’ll understand. He’ll agree that we should rescind the deal.”

Shiozaki shook his head. “We can’t do that. You know we can’t. That’s part of the agreement.”

“But—”

“No buts,” said Shiozaki. “That’s the way it has to be. No successor has ever come back here. They can’t. Your successor has to do everything possible to shut your existence out of his mind, so he can get on with his existence, and not worry about yours. Even if he wanted to come see you, we wouldn’t allow the visit.”

“You can’t treat me like this. It’s inhuman.”

“Get this through your skull,” said Shiozaki. “You are not human.”

“Yes, I am, damn it. If you—”

“If I prick you, do you not bleed?” said Shiozaki.

“Exactly! I’m the one who is flesh and blood. I’m the one who grew in my mother’s womb. I’m the one who is a descendant of thousands of generations of Homo sapiens and thousands of generations of Homo erectus and Homo habilis before that. This—this other me is just a machine, a robot, an android.”

“No, it’s not. It is George Rathburn. The one and only George Rathburn.”

“Then why do you call him ‘it’?”

“I’m not going to play semantic games with you,” said Shiozaki. “He is George Rathburn. You aren’t—not anymore.”

The man lifted his hand from the table and clenched his fist. “Yes, I am. I am George Rathburn.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just a skin. Just a shed skin.”

* * *

George Rathburn was slowly getting used to his new body. He’d spent six months in counseling preparing for the transference. They’d told him this replacement body wouldn’t feel like his old one, and they’d been right. Most people didn’t transfer until they were old, until they’d enjoyed as much biological physicality as they could—and until the ever-improving robotic technology was as good as it was going to get during their natural lifetimes.