“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.
She tilted her head slightly. Even with a transfer's strength, that door must be hard to close. Hopefully she'd find it plausible that she'd given the handle a final tug, and had only assumed that the door had closed completely when she'd last left. Of course, I immediately saw the flaw with that story: you might miss the door not clicking into place, but you wouldn't fail to notice that light was still spilling out into the corridor. But most people don't consider things in such detail; I'd hoped she'd buy Pickover's suggestion.
And, after a moment more's reflection, she seemed to do just that, nodding her head, apparently to herself, then moving closer to the table onto which the synthetic body was strapped. “We don't have to do this again,” said Cassandra. “If you just tell me…”
She let the words hang in the air for a moment, but Pickover made no response. Her shoulders moved up and down a bit in a philosophical shrug. “It's your choice,” she said. And then, to my astonishment, she hauled back her right arm and slapped Pickover hard across the robotic face, and—
And Pickover screamed.
It was a long, low, warbling sound, like sheet-metal being warped, a haunted sound, an inhuman sound.
“Please…” he hissed again, the same plaintive word he'd said to me, the word I, too, had ignored.
Cassandra slapped him again, and again he screamed. Now, I've been slapped by lots of women over the years: it stings, but I've never screamed. And surely an artificial body was made of sterner stuff than me.
Cassandra went for a third slap. Pickover's screams echoed in the dead hulk of the ship.
“Tell me,” she said.
I couldn't see his face; her body was obscuring it. Maybe he shook his head. Maybe he just glared defiantly. But he said nothing.
She shrugged again; they'd obviously been down this road before. She moved to one side of the bed and stood by his right arm, which was pinned to his body by the nylon strap. “You really don't want me to do this,” she said. “And I don't have to, if…” She let the uncompleted offer hang there for a few seconds, then: “Ah, well.” She reached down with her beige, realistic-looking hand, and wrapped three of her fingers around his right index finger. And then she started bending it backward.
I could see Pickover's face now. Pulleys along his jawline were working; he was struggling to keep his mouth shut. His glass eyes were rolling up, back into his head, and his left leg was shaking in spasms. It was a bizarre display, and I alternated moment by moment between feeling sympathy for the being lying there, and feeling cool detachment because of the clearly artificial nature of the body.
Cassandra let go of Pickover's index finger, and, for a second, I thought she was showing some mercy.
But then she grabbed it as well as the adjacent finger, and began bending them both back. This time, despite his best efforts, guttural, robotic sounds did escape from Pickover.
“Talk!” Cassandra said. “Talk!”
I'd recently learned — from Cassandra herself — that artificial bodies had to have pain sensors; otherwise, a robotic hand might end up resting on a heating element, or too much pressure might be put on a joint.
But I hadn't expected such sensors to be so sensitive, and—
And then it hit me, just as another of Pickover's warbling screams was torn from him. Cassandra knew all about artificial bodies; she sold them, after all. If she wanted to adjust the mind-body interface of one so that pain would register particularly acutely, doubtless she could. I'd seen a lot of evil things in my time, but this was perhaps the worst. Scan a mind, put it in a body wired for hypersensitivity to pain, and torture it until it gave up its secrets. Then, of course, you just wipe the mind, and—
“You will crack eventually, you know,” she said, almost conversationally, as she looked at Pickover's fleshless face. “Given that it's inevitable, you might as well just tell me what I want to know.”
The elastic bands that served as some of Pickover's facial muscles contracted, his teeth parted, and his head moved forward slightly but rapidly. I thought for half a second that he was incongruously blowing her a kiss, but then I realized what he was really trying to do: spit at her. Of course, his dry mouth and plastic throat were incapable of generating moisture, but his mind — a human mind, a mind accustomed to a biological body — had summoned and focused all its hate into that most primal of gestures.