“But I told you the truth! I told you everything you need to know.”
“Exactly. And so you’re of no further use to me.” She took a multipronged tool off the small table, returned to Pickover, and opened a hatch in his side.
I stepped out the closet, my gun aimed directly at Cassandra’s back. “Freeze,” I said.
She spun around. “Lomax!”
“Mrs. Wilkins,” I said, nodding. “I guess you don’t need me to find your husband for you anymore, eh? Now that you’ve got the information he was after.”
“What? No, no. I still want you to find Joshua. Of course I do!”
“So you can share the wealth with him?”
“Wealth?” She looked over at the hapless Pickover. “Oh. Well, yes, there’s a lot of money at stake.” She smiled. “So much so that I’d be happy to cut you in, Mr. Lomax—oh, you’re a good man. I know you wouldn’t hurt me!”
I shook my head. “You’d betray me the first chance you got.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’ll need protection; I understand that—what with all the money the fossils will bring. Having someone like you on my side only makes sense.”
I looked over at Pickover and shook my head. “You tortured that man.”
“That ‘man,’ as you call him, wouldn’t have existed at all without me. And the real Pickover isn’t inconvenienced in the slightest.”
“But… torture,” I said. “It’s inhuman.”
She jerked a contemptuous thumb at Pickover. “He’s not human. Just some software running on some hardware.”
“That’s what you are, too.”
“That’s part of what I am,” Cassandra said. “But I’m also authorized. He’s bootleg—and bootlegs have no rights.”
“I’m not going to argue philosophy with you.”
“Fine. But remember who works for who, Mr. Lomax. I’m the client—and I’m going to be on my way now.”
I held my gun rock-steady. “No, you’re not.”
She looked at me. “An interesting situation,” she said, her tone even. “I’m unarmed, and you’ve got a gun. Normally, that would put you in charge, wouldn’t it? But your gun probably won’t stop me. Shoot me in the head, and the bullet will just bounce off my metal skull. Shoot me in the chest, and at worst you might damage some components that I’ll eventually have to get replaced—which I can, and at a discount, to boot.
“Meanwhile,” she continued, “I have the strength of ten men; I could literally pull your limbs from their sockets, or crush your head between my hands, squeezing it until it pops like a melon, and your brains, such as they are, squirt out. So, what’s it going to be, Mr. Lomax? Are you going to let me walk out that door and be about my business? Or are you going to pull that trigger, and start something that’s going to end with you dead?”
I was used to a gun in my hand giving me a sense of power, of security. But just then, the Smith & Wesson felt like a lead weight. She was right: shooting her with it was likely to be no more useful than just throwing it at her—and yet, if I could drop her with one shot, I’d do it. I’d killed before in self-defense, but…
But this wasn’t self-defense. Not really. If I didn’t start something, she was just going to walk out. Could I kill in cold… well, not cold blood. And she was right: she was a person, even if Pickover wasn’t. She was the one and only legal instantiation of Cassandra Wilkins. The cops might be corrupt here, and they might be lazy, but even they wouldn’t turn a blind eye on attempted murder under the dome.
“So,” she said, at last, “what’s it going to be?”
“You make a persuasive argument, Mrs. Wilkins,” I said in the most reasonable tone I could muster under the circumstances. And then, without changing my facial expression in the slightest, I pulled the trigger.
I wondered if a transfer’s time sense ever slows down, or if it is always perfectly quartz-crystal timed. Certainly, time seemed to attenuate for me then. I swear I could actually see the bullet as it followed its trajectory from my gun, covering the three meters between the barrel and—
And not, of course, Cassandra’s torso.
Nor her head.
She was right; I probably couldn’t harm her that way.
No, instead, I’d aimed past her, at the table on which the faux Pickover was lying on his back. Specifically, I’d aimed at the place where the thick nylon band that crossed over his torso, pinning his arms, was anchored on the right-hand side—the point where it made a taut diagonal line between where it was attached to the side of the table and the top of Pickover’s arm.
The bullet sliced through the band, cutting it in two. The long portion, freed of tension, flew up and over his torso like a snake that had just had 40,000 volts pumped through it.
Cassandra’s eyes went wide in astonishment that I’d missed her, and her head swung around. The report of the bullet was still ringing in my ears, but I swear I could also hear the zzzzinnnng! of the restraining band snapping free. To be hypersensitive to pain, I figured you’d have to have decent reaction times, and I hoped that Pickover had been smart enough to note in advance my slight deviation of aim before I fired.
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 backward, 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 that coming to an end.” 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 this copy of my mind, and you committed torture. 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.”
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.