Identity Theft

And, indeed, no sooner were his arms free than he sat bolt upright — his legs were still restrained — and grabbed one of Cassandra's arms, pulling her toward him. I leapt in the meager Martian gravity. Most of Cassandra's body was made of lightweight composites and synthetic materials, but I was still good old flesh and blood: I outmassed her by at least thirty kilos. My impact propelled her backwards, and she slammed against the table's side. Pickover shot out his other arm, grabbing Cassandra's second arm, pinning her backside against the edge of the table. I struggled to regain a sure footing, then brought my gun up to her right temple.

“All right, sweetheart,” I said. “Do you really want to test how strong your artificial skull is?”

Cassandra's mouth was open; had she still been biological, she'd probably have been gasping for breath.

But her heartless chest was perfectly still. “You can't just shoot me,” she said.

“Why not? Pickover here will doubtless back me up when I say it was self-defense, won't you, Pickover?”

He nodded. “Absolutely.”

“In fact,” I said, “you, me, this Pickover, and the other Pickover are the only ones who know where the alpha deposit is. I think the three of us would be better off without you on the scene anymore.”

“You won't get away with it,” said Cassandra. “You can't.”

“I've gotten away with plenty over the years,” I said. “I don't see an end to that in sight.” I cocked the hammer, just for fun.

“Look,” she said, “there's no need for this. We can all share in the wealth. There's plenty to go around.”

“Except you don't have any rightful claim to it,” said Pickover. “You stole a copy of my mind, and tortured me. And you want to be rewarded for that?”

“Pickover's right,” I said. “It's his treasure, not yours.”

“It's humanity's treasure,” corrected Pickover. “It belongs to all mankind.”

“But I'm your client,” Cassandra said to me.

“So's he. At least, the legal version of him is.”

Cassandra sounded desperate. “But — but that's a conflict of interest!”

“So sue me,” I said.

She shook her head in disgust. “You're just in this for yourself!”

I shrugged amiably, and then pressed the barrel even tighter against her artificial head. “Aren't we all?”

“Shoot her,” said Pickover. I looked at him. He was still holding her upper arms, pressing them in close to her torso. If he'd been biological, the twisting of his torso to accommodate doing that probably would have been quite uncomfortable. Actually, now that I thought of it, given his heightened sensitivity to pain, even this artificial version was probably hurting from twisting that way. But apparently this was a pain he was happy to endure.

“Do you really want me to do that?” I said. “I mean, I can understand, after what she did to you, but…” I didn't finish the thought; I just left it in the air for him to take or leave.

“She tortured me,” he said. “She deserves to die.”

I frowned, unable to dispute his logic — but, at the same time, wondering if Pickover knew that he was as much on trial here as she was.

“Can't say I blame you,” I said again, and then added another “but,” and once more left the thought incomplete.

At last, Pickover nodded. “But maybe you're right. I can't offer her any compassion, but I don't need to see her dead.”

A look of plastic relief rippled over Cassandra's face. I nodded. “Good man,” I said. I'd killed before, but I never enjoyed it.

“But, still,” said Pickover, “I would like some revenge.”

Cassandra's upper arms were still pinned by Pickover, but her lower arms were free. To my astonishment, they both moved. The movement startled me, and I looked down, just in time to see them jerking toward her groin, almost as if to protect…

I found myself staggering backward; it took a second for me to regain my balance. “Oh, my God…”

Cassandra had quickly moved her arms back to a neutral, hanging-down position — but it was too late.

The damage had been done.

“You…” I said. I normally was never at a loss for words, but I was just then. “You're…”

Pickover had seen it, too; his torso had been twisted just enough to allow him to do so.

“No woman…” he began slowly.

Cassandra hadn't wanted to touch Pickover's groin — even though it was artificial — with her bare hands.

And when Pickover had suggested exacting revenge for what had been done to him, Cassandra's hands had moved instinctively to protect—

Jesus, why hadn't I see it before? The way she plunked herself down in a chair, the fact that she couldn't bring herself to wear makeup or jewelry in her new body; her discomfort at intimately touching or being intimately touched by men: it was obvious in retrospect.

Cassandra's hands had moved instinctively to protect her own testicles.

“You're not Cassandra Wilkins,” I said.

“Of course I am,” said the female voice.

“Not on the inside, you're not,” I said. “You're a man. Whatever mind has been transferred into that body is male.”