Identity Theft and other stories (collection)

And Rathburn couldn’t resist. “Yes, I know there are those who would say I can’t be damned—because whatever it is that constitutes the human soul isn’t recorded during the transference process. That’s the gist of it, isn’t it? The argument that I’m not really human comes down to a theological assertion: I can’t be human, because I have no soul. But I tell you this, Detective Lucerne: I feel every bit as alive—and every bit as spiritual—as I did before the transfer. I’m convinced that I do have a soul, or a divine spark, or an elan vital, or whatever you want to call it. My life in this particular packaging of it is not worth one iota less than Dr. Ng’s, or anyone else’s.”

Lucerne was quiet for a time, considering. “But what about the other you? You’re willing to stand here and tell me that that version—the original, flesh-and-blood version—is not human anymore. And you would have that distinction by legal fiat, just as blacks were denied human rights in the old south.”

“There’s a difference,” said Rathburn. “There’s a big difference. That version of me—the one holding Dr. Ng hostage—agreed of its own free will, without any coercion whatsoever, to that very proposition. He—it— agreed that it would no longer be human, once the transfer into the robot body was completed.”

“But he doesn’t want it to be that way anymore.”

“Tough. It’s not the first contract that he—that /—signed in my life that I later regretted. But simple regret isn’t reason enough to get out of a legally valid transaction.” Rathburn shook his robotic head. “No, I’m sorry. I refuse. Believe me, I wish more than anything that you could save Dr. Ng—but you’re going to have to find another way to do it. There’s too much at stake here for my people—for uploaded humans—to let me make any other decision.”

* * *

“All right,” Lucerne finally said to the robotic Rathburn, “I give up. If we can’t do it the easy way, we’re going to have to do it the hard way. It’s a good thing the old Rathburn wants to see the new Rathburn directly. Having him in that operating room while you’re in the overlooking observation gallery will be perfect for sneaking a sharpshooter in.”

Rathburn felt as though his eyes should go wide, but of course they did not. “You’re going to shoot him?”

“You’ve left us no other choice. Standard procedure is to give the hostage-taker everything he wants, get the hostage back, then go after the criminal. But the only thing he wants is for you to be dead—and you’re not willing to cooperate. So we’re going to take him out.”

“You’ll use a tranquilizer, won’t you?”

Lucerne snorted. “On a man holding a knife to a woman’s throat? We need something that will turn him off like a light, before he’s got time to react. And the best way to do that is a bullet to the head or chest.”

“But … but I don’t want you to kill him.”

Lucerne made an even louder snort. “By your logic, he’s not alive anyway.”

“Yes, but …”

“But what? You willing to give him what he wants?”

“I can’t. Surely you can see that.”

Lucerne shrugged. “Too bad. 1 was looking forward to being able to quip ‘Goodbye, Mr. Chips.’ ”

“Damn you,” said Rathburn. “Don’t you see that it’s because of that sort of attitude that I can’t allow this precedent?”

Lucerne made no reply, and after a time Rathburn continued. “Can’t we fake my death somehow ? Just enough for you to get Ng back to safety ?”

Lucerne shook his head. “GR-7 demanded proof that it was really you inside that tin can. I don’t think he can be easily fooled. But you know him better than anyone else. Could you be fooled?”

Rathburn tipped his mechanical head down. “No. No, I’m sure he’ll demand positive proof.”

“Then we’re back to the sharpshooter.”

* * *

Rathburn walked into the observation gallery, his golden feet making soft metallic clangs as they touched the hard, tiled floor. He looked through the angled glass, down at the operating room below. The slab-of-flab version of himself had Dr. Ng tied up now, her hands and feet bound with surgical tape. She couldn’t get away, but he no longer had to constantly hold the scalpel to her throat. GR-7 was standing up, and she was next to him, leaning against the operating table.

The angled window continued down to within a half-meter of the floor. Crouching below its sill was Conrad Burloak, the sharpshooter, in a gray uniform, holding a black rifle. A small transmitter had been inserted in Rathburn’s camera hardware, copying everything his glass eyes were seeing onto a datapad Burloak had with him.

In ideal circumstances, Burloak had said, he liked to shoot for the head, but here he was going to have to fire through the plate-glass window, and that might deflect the bullet slightly. So he was going to aim for the center of the torso, a bigger target. As soon as the datapad showed a clean line-of-fire at G.R., Burloak would pop up and blow him away.

“Hello, George,” said the robotic Rathburn. There was an open intercom between the observation gallery and the operating theater below.