Robert Sawyer: Shed Skin

Rathburn—the Rathburn made out of carbon, that is—had entered Paradise Valley ’s 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 he’d 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 word—almost as good as having a real name. Rathburn took a seat at the same table. One of the ever-solicitous servers—young, female (for this table of straight men), beautiful—was already at hand, and G.R. ordered a glass of champagne. It wasn’t a special occasion—nothing was ever special in Paradise Valley—but 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 don’t like it here.”

Dat admired the derrière of the departing server, and took a sip of his wine. “What’s not to like?”

“You used to be a lawyer, didn’t 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 Valley ’s “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. He’d watched for two weeks now, and knew the schedule, knew that little Lilly Ng—slight, Vietnamese, fifty—would be the doctor on duty. She, like Shiozaki, was staff—a 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 wasn’t 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.

“That’s 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, she’d been down this road before with others. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I’ve got a skin tag in my left armpit,” he said. “I’ve had it for years, but it’s 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 he’d selected—looking like a cross between the Oscar statuette and C-3PO—had 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 that’s the right thing to do,” said G.R.

“Sure,” said Ng. “I’ll 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 excruciating—for a few moments. And then there was no sensation at all.

“How’s 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 Ng’s throat. Damn but the thing was sharp! He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but a shallow slit two centimeters long now welled crimson across where her Adam’s 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 you’ll walk out of this alive. Screw me over, and you’re dead.”

“Don’t worry,” said Detective Dan Lucerne to Mr. Shiozaki. “I’ve handled eight hostage situations over the years, and in every case, we’ve managed a peaceful solution. We’ll 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 he’d 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 Lucerne ’s shoulder and tapped out three numbers on the keypad. After a moment, the screen came to life, showing Ng’s 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 Ng’s neck.

“Hello,” said Lucerne. “My name is Detective Dan Lucerne. I’m here to help you.”

“You’re here to save Dr. Ng’s 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. “That’s 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 he’d 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 Lucerne ’s shoulder again, pushing the mute button. “We can’t allow that.”

“Why not?” asked Lucerne.

“Our contract with the uploaded version specifies that there will never be any contact with the shed skin.”

“I’m not worried about fine print,” said Lucerne. “I’m trying to save a woman’s life.” He took the mute off. “Sorry about that, Mr. Rathburn.”

GR-7 nodded. “I see Mr. Shiozaki standing behind you. I’m sure he told you that what I wanted isn’t permitted.”

Lucerne didn’t look away from the screen, didn’t break the eye contact with the skin. “He did say that, yes. But he’s not in charge here. I’m not in charge here. It’s your show, Mr. Rathburn.”