

Shed Skin

Robert J. Sawyer


a Short Story from
Analog Science Fiction and Fact
January-February 2004





	Im 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 theres nothing I can do for you.
	But Ive 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 cant change your mind, said Shiozaki. Youve moved your mind.
	The mans voice had taken on a plaintive tone, although he was clearly trying to suppress it. I didnt 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. Its what he wanted.
	But I dont want it anymore.
	You dont 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 seeto see the other me. Ill explain it to him. Hell understand. Hell agree that we should rescind the deal.
	Shiozaki shook his head. We cant do that. You know we cant. Thats part of the agreement.
	But
	No buts, said Shiozaki. Thats the way it has to be. No successor has ever come back here. They cant. 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 wouldnt allow the visit.
	You cant treat me like this. Its 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! Im the one who is flesh and blood. Im the one who grew in my mothers womb. Im 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. Thisthis other me is just a machine, a robot, an android.
	No, its not. It is George Rathburn. The one and only George Rathburn.
	Then why do you call him it?
	Im not going to play semantic games with you, said Shiozaki. He is George Rathburn. You arentnot anymore.
	The man lifted his hand from the table and clenched his fist. Yes, I am. I am George Rathburn.
	No, youre not. Youre just a skin. Just a shed skin.
#
	George Rathburn was slowly getting used to his new body. Hed spent six months in counseling preparing for the transference. Theyd told him this replacement body wouldnt feel like his old one, and theyd been right. Most people didnt transfer until they were old, until theyd enjoyed as much biological physicality as they couldand until the ever-improving robotic technology was as good as it was going to get during their natural lifetimes.
	After all, although the current robot bodies were superior in many ways to the slab-of-flab oneshow soon hed adopted that term!they still werent as physically sensitive.
	Sexthe recreational act, if not the procreative onewas possible, but it wasnt quite as good. Synapses were fully reproduced in the nano-gel of the new brain, but hormonal responses were faked by playing back memories of previous events. Oh, an orgasm was still an orgasm, still wonderfulbut it wasnt the unique, unpredictable experience of a real sexual climax. There was no need to ask, Was it good for you?, for it was always good, always predictable, always exactly the same.
	Still, there were compensations. George could now walkor run, if he wanted tofor hours on end without feeling the slightest fatigue. And hed dispensed with sleep. His daily memories were organized and sorted in a six-minute packing session every twenty-four hours; that was his only downtime.
	Downtime. Funny that it had been the biological version of him that had been prone to downtime, while the electronic version was mostly free of it.
	There were other changes, too. His proprioceptionthe sense of how his body and limbs were deployed at any given momentwas much sharper than it had previously been.
	And his vision was more acute. He couldnt see into the infraredthat was technically possible, but so much of human cognition was based on the idea of darkness and light that to banish them with heat sensing had turned out to be bad psychologically. But his chromatic abilities had been extended in the other direction, and that let him see, among other things, bee purple, the color that often marked distinctive patterns on flower petals that human eyesthe old-fashioned kind of human eyes, that iswere blind to.
	Hidden beauty revealed.
	And an eternity to enjoy it.
#
	I demand to see a lawyer.
	Shiozaki was again facing the flesh-and-blood shell that had once housed George Rathburn, but the Japanese mans eyes seemed to be focused at infinity, as if looking right through him. And how would you pay for this lawyers services? Shiozaki asked at last.
	Rathburnperhaps he couldnt use his name in speech, but no one could keep him from thinking itopened his mouth to protest. He had moneylots of money. But, no, no, hed signed all that away. His biometrics were meaningless; his retinal scans were no longer registered. Even if he could get out of this velvet prison and access one, no ATM in the world would dispense cash to him. Oh, there were plenty of stocks and bonds in his name... but it wasnt his name anymore.
	There has to be something you can do to help me, said Rathburn.
	Of course, said Shiozaki. I can assist you in any number of ways. Anything at all you need to be comfortable here.
	But only here, right?
	Exactly. You knew thatIm sorry; Mr. Rathburn knew that when he chose this path for himself, and for you. You will spend the rest of your life here in Paradise Valley.
	Rathburn was silent for a time, then: What if I agreed to accept your restrictions? What if I agreed not to present myself as George Rathburn? Could I leave here then?
	You arent George Rathburn. Regardless, we cant allow you to have any outside contact. Shiozaki was quiet for a few moments, and then, in a softer tone, he said, Look, why make things difficult for yourself? Mr. Rathburn provided very generously for you. You will live a life of luxury here. You can access any books you might want, any movies. Youve seen our recreation center, and you must admit its fabulous. And our sex-workers are the best-looking on the planet. Think of this as the longest, most-pleasant vacation youve ever had.
	Except it doesnt end until I die, said Rathburn.
	Shiozaki said nothing.
	Rathburn exhaled noisily. Youre about to tell me that Im already dead, arent you? And so I shouldnt think of this as a prison; I should think of this as heaven.
	Shiozaki opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again without saying anything. Rathburn knew that the administrator couldnt even give him that comfort. He wasnt deadnor would he be, even when this discarded biological container, here, in Paradise Valley, finally ceased to function. No, George Rathburn lived on, a duplicated version of this consciousness in an almost indestructible, virtually immortal robot body, out in the real world.
#
	Hey there, G.R., said the black man with the long gray beard. Join me?
	Rathburnthe Rathburn made out of carbon, that ishad entered Paradise Valleys dining hall. The man with the beard had already been served his lunch: a lobster tail, garlic mashed potatoes, a glass of the finest Chardonnay. The food here was exquisite.
	Hi, Dat, Rathburn said, nodding. He envied the bearded man. His name, before hed transferred his consciousness into a robot, had been Darius Allan Thompson, so his initials, the only version of his birth name allowed to be used here, made a nice little wordalmost as good as having a real name. Rathburn took a seat at the same table. One of the ever-solicitous serversyoung, female (for this table of straight men), beautifulwas already at hand, and G.R. ordered a glass of champagne. It wasnt a special occasionnothing was ever special in Paradise Valleybut any pleasure was available to those, like him and Dat, on the Platinum Plus maintenance plan.
	Why so long in the face, G.R.? asked Dat.
	I dont like it here.
	Dat admired the derrire of the departing server, and took a sip of his wine. Whats not to like?
	You used to be a lawyer, didnt you? Back on the outside?
	I still am a lawyer on the outside, said Dat.
	G.R. frowned, but decided not to press the point. Can you answer some questions for me?
	Sure. What do you want to know?
#
	G.R. entered Paradise Valleys hospital. He thought of the name as being in quotation marks, since a real hospital was a place you were supposed to go to only temporarily for healing. But most of those who had uploaded their consciousness, who had shed their skins, were elderly. And when their discarded shells checked into the hospital, it was to die. But G.R. was only forty-five. With proper medical treatment, and some good luck, he had a fair chance of seeing one hundred.
	G.R. went into the waiting room. Hed watched for two weeks now, and knew the schedule, knew that little Lilly Ngslight, Vietnamese, fiftywould be the doctor on duty. She, like Shiozaki, was staffa real person who got to go home, to the real world, at night.
	After a short time, the receptionist said the time-honored words: The doctor will see you now.
	G.R. walked into the green-walled examination room. Ng was looking down at a datapad. GR-7, she said, reading his serial number. Of course, he wasnt the only one with the initials G.R. in Paradise Valley, and so he had to share what faint echo of a name he still possessed with several other people. She looked at him, her gray eyebrows raised, waiting for him to confirm that that was indeed who he was.
	Thats me, said G.R., but you can call me George.
	No, said Ng. I cannot. She said it in a firm but gentle tone; presumably, shed been down this road before with others. What seems to be the problem?
	Ive got a skin tag in my left armpit, he said. Ive had it for years, but its started to get sensitive. It hurts when I apply roll-on deodorant, and it chafes as I move my arm.
	Ng frowned. Take off your shirt, please.
	G.R. began undoing buttons. He actually had several skin tags, as well as a bunch of moles. He also had a hairy back, which he hated. One reason uploading his consciousness had initially seemed appealing was to divest himself of these dermal imperfections. The new golden robot body hed selectedlooking like a cross between the Oscar statuette and C-3POhad no such cosmetic defects.
	As soon as the shirt was off he lifted his left arm and let Ng examine his axilla.
	Hmm, she said, peering at the skin tag. It does look inflamed.
	G.R. had brutally pinched the little knob of skin an hour before, and had twisted it as much as he could in either direction.
	Ng was now gently squeezing it between thumb and forefinger. G.R. had been prepared to suggest a treatment, but it would be better if she came up with the idea herself. After a moment, she obliged. I can remove it for you, if you like.
	If you think thats the right thing to do, said G.R.
	Sure, said Ng. Ill give you a local anesthetic, clip it off, and cauterize the cut. No need for stitches.
	Clip it off? No! No, he needed her to use a scalpel, not surgical scissors. Damn it!
	She crossed the room, prepared a syringe, and returned, injecting it directly into the skin tag. The needle going in was excruciatingfor a few moments. And then there was no sensation at all.
	Hows that? she asked.
	Fine.
	Ng put on surgical gloves, opened a cupboard, and pulled out a small leather case. She placed it on the examination table G.R. was now perched on, and opened it. It contained surgical scissors, forceps, and
	They glinted beautifully under the lights from the ceiling.
	A pair of scalpels, one with a short blade, the other with a longer one.
	All right, said Ng, reaching in and extracting the scissors. Here we go...
	G.R. shot his right arm out, grabbing the long-bladed scalpel, and quickly swung it around, bringing it up and under Ngs throat. Damn but the thing was sharp! He hadnt meant to hurt her, but a shallow slit two centimeters long now welled crimson across where her Adams apple would have been had she been a man.
	A small scream escaped from Ng, and G.R. quickly clamped his other hand over her mouth. He could feel her shaking.
	Do exactly as I say, he said, and youll walk out of this alive. Screw me over, and youre dead.
#
	Dont worry, said Detective Dan Lucerne to Mr. Shiozaki. Ive handled eight hostage situations over the years, and in every case, weve managed a peaceful solution. Well get your woman back.
	Shiozaki nodded then looked away, hiding his eyes from the detective. He should have recognized the signs in GR-7. If only hed ordered him sedated, this never would have happened.
	Lucerne gestured toward the vidphone. Get the examination room on this thing, he said.
	Shiozaki reached over Lucernes shoulder and tapped out three numbers on the keypad. After a moment, the screen came to life, showing Ngs hand pulling away from the camera at her end. As the hand withdrew, it was clear that G.R. still had the scalpel held to Ngs neck.
	Hello, said Lucerne. My name is Detective Dan Lucerne. Im here to help you.
	Youre here to save Dr.Ngs life, said GR-7. And if you do everything I want, you will.
	All right, said Lucerne. What do you want, sir?
	For starters, I want you to call me Mr. Rathburn.
	Fine, said Lucerne. Thats fine, Mr. Rathburn.
	Lucerne was surprised to see the shed skin tremble in response. Again, GR-7 said, as if it were the sweetest sound hed ever heard. Say it again.
	What can we do for you, Mr. Rathburn?
	I want to talk to the robot version of me.
	Shiozaki reached over Lucernes shoulder again, pushing the mute button. We cant allow that.
	Why not? asked Lucerne.
	Our contract with the uploaded version specifies that there will never be any contact with the shed skin.
	Im not worried about fine print, said Lucerne. Im trying to save a womans life. He took the mute off. Sorry about that, Mr. Rathburn.
	GR-7 nodded. I see Mr. Shiozaki standing behind you. Im sure he told you that what I wanted isnt permitted.
	Lucerne didnt look away from the screen, didnt break the eye contact with the skin. He did say that, yes. But hes not in charge here. Im not in charge here. Its your show, Mr. Rathburn.
	Rathburn visibly relaxed. Lucerne could see him back the scalpel off a bit from Ngs neck. Thats more like it, he said. All right. All right. I dont want to kill Dr.Ngbut I will unless you bring the robot version of me here within three hours. He spoke out of the side of his mouth to Ng. Break the connection.
	A terrified-looking Ng reached her arm forward, her pale hand and simple gold wedding ring filling the field of view.
	And the screen went dead.
#
	George Rathburnthe silicon versionwas sitting in the dark, wood-paneled living room of his large Victorian-style country house. Not that he had to sit; he never grew tired anymore. Nor did he really need his chairs to be padded. But folding his metal body into the seat still felt like the natural thing to do.
	Knowing that, barring accidents, he was now going to live virtually forever, Rathburn figured he should tackle something big and ambitious, like War and Peace or Ulysses. But, well, there would always be time for that later. Instead, he downloaded the latest Buck Doheney mystery novel into his datapad, and began to read.
	Hed only gotten halfway through the second screenful of text when the datapad bleeped, signaling an incoming call.
	Rathburn thought about just letting the pad record a message. Already, after only a few weeks of immortality, nothing seemed particularly urgent. Still, it might be Kathryn. Hed met her at the training center, while they were both getting used to their robot bodies, and to their immortality. Ironically, shed been eighty-two before shed uploaded; in his now-discarded flesh-and-blood shell, George Rathburn would never have had a relationship with a woman so much older than he was. But now that they were both in artificial bodieshis gold, hers a lustrous bronzethey were well on the way to a full-fledged romance.
	The pad bleeped again, and Rathburn touched the ANSWER iconno need to use a stylus anymore; his synthetic fingers didnt secrete oils that would leave a mark on the screen.
	Rathburn had that strange feeling hed experienced once or twice since uploadingthe feeling of deep surprise that would have been accompanied by his old heart skipping a beat. Mr. Shiozaki? he said. I didnt expect to ever see you again.
	Im sorry to have to bother you, George, but wevewell, weve got an emergency. Your old body has taken a hostage here in Paradise Valley.
	What? My God...
	Hes saying he will kill the woman if we dont let him talk to you.
	George wanted to do the right thing, but...
	But hed spent weeks now trying to forget that another version of him still existed. IumI guess itd be okay if you put him on.
	Shiozaki shook his head. No. He wont take a phone call. He says you have to come here in person.
	But... but you said...
	I know what we told you during counseling, but, dammit, George, a womans life is at stake. You might be immortal now, but she isnt.
	Rathburn thought for another few seconds, then: All right. All right. I can be there in a couple of hours.
#
	The robot-bodied George Rathburn was shocked by what he was seeing on the vidphone in Shiozakis office. It was himjust as he remembered himself. His soft, fragile body; his graying temples; his receding hairline; his nose that hed always thought was too large.
	But it was him doing something he never could have imagined doingholding a surgical blade to a womans throat.
	Detective Lucerne spoke toward the phones pickups. Okay, he said. Hes here. The other you is here.
	On the screen, Rathburn could see his shed skins eyes go wide as they beheld what hed become. Of course, that version of him had selected the golden bodybut it had only been an empty shell then, with no inner workings. Well, well, well, said G.R. Welcome, brother.
	Rathburn didnt trust his synthesized voice, so he simply nodded.
	Come on down to the hospital, said G.R. Go to the observation gallery above the operating theater; Ill go to the operating theater itself. Well be able to see each otherand well be able to talk, man to man.
#
	Hello, said Rathburn. He was standing on his golden legs, staring through the angled sheet of glass that overlooked the operating room.
	Hello, said GR-7, looking up. Before we go any further, I need you to prove that you are who you say you are. Sorry about this, but, well, it could be anyone inside that robot.
	Its me, said Rathburn.
	No. At best its one of us. But Ive got to be sure.
	So ask me a question.
	GR-7 was clearly prepared for this. The first girl to ever give us a blowjob.
	Carrie, said Rathburn, at once. At the soccer field.
	GR-7 smiled. Good to see you, brother.
	Rathburn was silent for a few moments. He swiveled his head on noiseless, frictionless bearings, looking briefly at Lucernes face, visible on a vidphone out of view of the observation window. Then he turned back to his shed skin. I, ah, I understand you want to be called George.
	Thats right.
	But Rathburn shook his head. Weyou and I, when we were oneshared exactly the same opinion about this matter. We wanted to live forever. And that cant be done in a biological body. You know that.
	It cant be done yet in a biological body. But Im only 45. Who knows what technology will be available in the rest of ourof mylifetime?
	Rathburn no longer breathedso he could no longer sigh. But he moved his steel shoulders while feeling the emotion that used to produce a sigh. You know why we chose to transfer early. You have a genetic predisposition to fatal strokes. But I dont have thatGeorge Rathburn doesnt have that anymore. You might check out any day now, and if we hadnt transferred our consciousness into this body, there would have been no immortality for us.
	But we didnt transfer consciousness, said GR-7. We copied consciousnessbit for bit, synapse for synapse. Youre a copy. Im the original.
	Not as a matter of law, said Rathburn. Youthe biological yousigned the contract that authorized the transfer of personhood. You signed it with the same hand youre using to hold that scalpel to Dr.Ngs throat.
	But Ive changed my mind.
	You dont have a mind to change. The software we called the mind of George Rathburnthe only legal version of ithas been transferred from the hardware of your biological brain to the hardware of our new bodys nano-gel CPU. The robotic Rathburn paused. By rights, as in any transfer of software, the original should have been destroyed.
	GR-7 frowned. Except that society wouldnt allow for that, any more than it would allow for physician-assisted suicide. Its illegal to terminate a source body, even after the brain has been transferred.
	Exactly, said Rathburn, nodding his robotic head. And you have to activate the replacement before the source dies, or else the court will determine that theres been no continuity of personhood and dispose of the assets. Death may not be certain anymore, but taxes certainly are.
	Rathburn had hoped GR-7 would laugh at that, hoped that a bridge could be built between them. But GR-7 simply said, So Im stuck here.
	Id hardly call it stuck, said Rathburn. Paradise Valley is a little piece of heaven here on Earth. Why not just enjoy it, until you really do go to heaven?
	I hate it here, said GR-7. He paused. Look, I accept that by the current wording of the law, I have no legal standing. All right, then. I cant make them nullify the transferbut you can. You are a person in the eyes of the law; you can do this.
	But I dont want to do it. I like being immortal.
	But I dont like being a prisoner.
	Its not me thats changed, said the android. Its you. Think about what youre doing. We were never violent. We would never dream of taking a hostage, of holding a knife to someones throat, of frightening a woman half to death. Youre the one who has changed.
	But the skin shook his head. Nonsense. Wed just never been in such desperate circumstances before. Desperate circumstances make one do desperate things. The fact that you cant conceive of us doing this means that youre a flawed copy. Thisthis transfer process isnt ready for prime time yet. You should nullify the copy and let me, the original, go on with yourwith ourlife.
	It was now the robotic Rathburns turn to shake his head. Look, you must realize that this cant ever workthat even if I were to sign some paper that transferred our legal status back to you, there are witnesses here to testify that Id been coerced into signing it. It would have no legal value.
	You think you can outsmart me? said GR-7. I am you. Of course I know that.
	Good. Then let that woman go.
	Youre not thinking, said GR-7. Or at least youre not thinking hard enough. Come on, this is me youre talking to. You must know Id have a better plan than that.
	I dont see....
	You mean you dont want to see. Think, Copy of George. Think.
	I still dont... The robotic Rathburn trailed off. Oh. No, no, you cant expect me to do that.
	Yes, I do, said GR-7.
	But...
	But what? The skin moved his free handthe one not holding the scalpelin a sweeping gesture. Its a simple proposition. Kill yourself, and your rights of personhood will default back to me. Youre correct that, right now, Im not a person under the lawmeaning I cant be charged with a crime. So I dont have to worry about going to jail for anything I do now. Oh, they might trybut Ill ultimately get off, because if I dont, the court will have to admit that not just me, but all of us here in Paradise Valley are still human beings, with human rights.
	What youre asking is impossible.
	What Im asking is the only thing that makes sense. I talked to a friend who used to be a lawyer. The personhood rights will revert if the original is still alive, but the uploaded version isnt. Im sure no one ever intended the law to be used for this purpose; Im told it was designed to allow product-liability suits if the robot brain failed shortly after transfer. But regardless, if you kill yourself, I get to go back to being a free human. GR-7 paused for a moment. So whats it going to be? Your pseudolife, or the real flesh-and-blood life of this woman?
	George... said the robot mouth. Please.
	But the biological George shook his head. If you really believe that you, as a copy of me, are more real than the original that still existsif you really believe that you have a soul, just like this woman does, inside your robotic framethen theres no particular reason why you should sacrifice yourself for Dr.Ng here. But if, down deep, youre thinking that Im correct, that she really is alive, and youre not, then youll do the right thing. He pressed the scalpels blade in slightly, drawing blood again. Whats it going to be?
#
	George Rathburn had returned to Shiozakis office, and Detective Lucerne was doing his best to persuade the robot-housed mind to agree to GR-7s terms.
	Not in a million years, said Rathburn, and, believe me, I intend to be around that long.
	But another copy of you can be made, said Lucerne.
	But it wont be methis me.
	But that woman, Dr.Ng: shes got a husband, three daughters...
	Im not insensitive to that, Detective, said Rathburn, pacing back and forth on his golden mechanical legs. But let me put it to you another way. Say this is 1875, in the southern US. The Civil War is over, blacks in theory have the same legal status as whites. But a white man is being held hostage, and hell only be let go if a black man agrees to sacrifice himself in the white mans place. See the parallel? Despite all the courtroom wrangling that was done to make uploaded life able to maintain the legal status, the personhood, of the original, youre asking me to set that aside, and reaffirm what the whites in the south felt they knew all along: that, all legal mumbo-jumbo to the contrary, a black man is worth less than a white man. Well, I wont do that. I wouldnt affirm that racist position, and Ill be damned if Ill affirm the modern equivalent: that a silicon-based person is worth less than a carbon-based person.
	Ill be damned, repeated Lucerne, imitating Rathburns synthesized voice. He let the comment hang in the air, waiting to see if Rathburn would respond to it.
	And Rathburn couldnt resist. Yes, I know there are those who would say I cant be damnedbecause whatever it is that constitutes the human soul isnt recorded during the transference process. Thats the gist of it, isnt it? The argument that Im not really human comes down to a theological assertion: I cant be human, because I have no soul. But I tell you this, Detective Lucerne: I feel every bit as aliveand every bit as spiritualas I did before the transfer. Im convinced that I do have a soul, or a divine spark, or an lan vital, or whatever you want to call it. My life in this particular packaging of it is not worth one iota less than Dr.Ngs, or anyone elses.
	Lucerne was quiet for a time, considering. But what about the other you? Youre willing to stand here and tell me that that versionthe original, flesh-and-blood versionis not human anymore. And you would have that distinction by legal fiat, just as blacks were denied human rights in the old south.
	Theres a difference, said Rathburn. Theres a big difference. That version of methe one holding Dr.Ng hostageagreed of its own free will, without any coercion whatsoever, to that very proposition. Heitagreed that it would no longer be human, once the transfer into the robot body was completed.
	But he doesnt want it to be that way anymore.
	Tough. Its not the first contract that hethat Isigned in my life that I later regretted. But simple regret isnt reason enough to get out of a legally valid transaction. Rathburn shook his robotic head. No, Im sorry. I refuse. Believe me, I wish more than anything that you could save Dr.Ngbut youre going to have to find another way to do it. Theres too much at stake here for my peoplefor uploaded humansto let me make any other decision.
#
	All right, Lucerne finally said to the robotic Rathburn, I give up. If we cant do it the easy way, were going to have to do it the hard way. Its a good thing the old Rathburn wants to see the new Rathburn directly. Having him in that operating room while youre 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. Youre going to shoot him?
	Youve 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 deadand youre not willing to cooperate. So were going to take him out.
	Youll use a tranquilizer, wont you?
	Lucerne snorted. On a man holding a knife to a womans throat? We need something that will turn him off like a light, before hes got time to react. And the best way to do that is a bullet to the head or chest.
	But... but I dont want you to kill him.
	Lucerne made an even louder snort. By your logic, hes not alive anyway.
	Yes, but...
	But what? You willing to give him what he wants?
	I cant. Surely you can see that.
	Lucerne shrugged. Too bad. I was looking forward to being able to quip Goodbye, Mr. Chips.
	Damn you, said Rathburn. Dont you see that its because of that sort of attitude that I cant allow this precedent?
	Lucerne made no reply, and after a time Rathburn continued. Cant 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 dont 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, Im sure hell demand positive proof.
	Then were 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 couldnt 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 Rathburns 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.
	All right, said the fleshy one. Lets get this over with. Open the access panel to your nano-gel braincase, and...
	But GR-7 trailed off, seeing that the robotic Rathburn was shaking his head. Im sorry, George. Im not going to deactivate myself.
	You prefer to see Dr.Ng die?
	Rathburn could shut off his visual input, the equivalent of closing his eyes. He did that just now for a moment, presumably much to the chagrin of the sharpshooter studying the datapad. Believe me, George, the last thing I want to do is see anyone die.
	He reactivated his eyes. Hed thought hed been suitably ironic but, of course, the other him had the same mind. GR-7, perhaps suspecting that something was up, had moved Dr.Ng so that she was now standing between himself and the glass,
	Dont try anything funny, said the skin. Ive got nothing to lose.
	Rathburn looked down on his former selfbut only in the literal sense. He didnt want to see this... this man, this being, this thing, this entity, this whatever it was, hurt.
	After all, even if the shed skin wasnt a person in the cold eyes of the law, he surely still remembered that time hedtheydalmost drowned swimming at the cottage, and mom pulling him to shore while his arms flailed in panic. And he remembered his first day at junior-high school, when a gang of grade nines had beaten him up as initiation. And he remembered the incredible shock and sadness when hed come home from his weekend job at the hardware store and found dad slumped over in his easy chair, dead from a stroke.
	And that biological him must remember all the good things, too: hitting that home run clear over the fence in grade eight, after all the members of the opposing team had moved in close; his first kiss, at a party, playing spin the bottle; and his first romantic kiss, with Dana, her studded tongue sliding into his mouth; that perfect day in the Bahamas, with the most gorgeous sunset hed ever seen.
	Yes, this other him wasnt just a backup, wasnt just a repository of data. He knew all the same things, felt all the same things, and
	The sharpshooter had crawled several meters along the floor of the observation gallery, trying to get a clean angle at GR-7. Out of the corner of his robotic visionwhich was as sharp at the peripheries as it was in the centerRathburn saw the sharpshooter tense his muscles, and then
	And then Burloak leaped up, swinging his rifle, and
	And to his astonishment, Rathburn found the words Look out, George! emitting from his robotic mouth at a greatly amplified volume.
	And just as the words came out, Burloak fired, and the window exploded into a thousand shards, and GR-7 spun around, grabbing Dr.Ng, swinging her in between himself and the sharpshooter, and the bullet hit, drilling a hole through the womans heart, and through the chest of the man behind her, and they both crumpled to the operating-room floor, and human blood flowed out of them, and the glass shards rained down upon them like robot tears.
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	And so, at last, there was no more ambiguity. There was only one George Rathburna single iteration of the consciousness that had first bloomed some forty-five years ago, now executing as code in the nano-gel inside a robotic form.
	George suspected that Shiozaki would try to cover up what had occurred back in Paradise Valleyat least the details. Hed have to admit that Dr.Ng had been killed by a skin, but doubtless Shiozaki would want to gloss over Rathburns warning shout. After all, it would be bad for business if those about to shed got wind of the fact that the new versions still had empathy for the old ones.
	But Detective Lucerne and his sharpshooter would want just the opposite: only by citing the robotic Rathburns interference could they exonerate the sharpshooter from accidentally shooting the hostage.
	But nothing could exonerate GR-7 from what hed done, swinging that poor, frightened woman in front of himself as a shield...
	Rathburn sat down in his country houses living room. Despite his robotic body, he did feel wearybone-wearyand needed the support of the chair.
	Hed done the right thing, even if GR-7 hadnt; he knew that. Any other choice by him would have been devastating not just for himself, but also for Kathryn and every other uploaded consciousness. There really had been no alternative.
	Immortality is grand. Immortality is great. As long as you have a clear conscience, that is. As long as youre not tortured by doubt, racked by depression, overcome with guilt.
	That poor woman, Dr.Ng. Shed done nothing wrong, nothing at all.
	And now she was dead.
	And hea version of himhad caused her to be killed.
	GR-7s words replayed in Rathburns memory. Wed just never been in such desperate circumstances before.
	Perhaps that was true. But he was in desperate circumstances now.
	And hed found himself contemplating actions he never would have considered possible for him before.
	That poor woman. That poor dead woman...
	It wasnt just GR-7s fault. It was his fault. Her death was a direct consequence of him wanting to live forever.
	And hed have to live with the guilt of that forever.
	Unless...
	Desperate circumstances make one do desperate things.
	He picked up the magnetic pistolastonishing what things you could buy online these days. A proximity blast from it would destroy all recordings in nano-gel.
	George Rathburn looked at the pistol, at its shiny, hard exterior.
	And he placed the emitter against the side of his stainless-steel skull, and, after a few moments of hesitation, his golden robotic finger contracted against the trigger.
	What better way, after all, was there to prove that he was still human?



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