Re-Coil - J.T. Nicholas Page 0,38
appearances, fingerprints, retinas, and even your DNA changed from one coil to the next, identity became something of a difficult concept to nail down. The problem had been solved by the increasing data transmission rates and what was once a picture and some vital statistics was now an amalgam of randomly selected information linked to a person. It included everything from employment records to purchasing habits and an endless array of data in between, all snapshot at random intervals and re-synced with a centralized database each time a person went to be backed up.
It was, in theory, unhackable. Because the protocols selected information at random, there was no set pattern that could be applied to filter the information available on the Net and extract a person’s identity. And because the set of information was changed or updated with each backup, most people had a mutable, non-repeating, entirely randomized series of individual-specific data packaged and encrypted into an algorithm that could be used as a means of identification. The central databases storing the matching set employed the same level of security as the backup servers themselves, which—until I learned of Miller’s erasure—everyone knew were completely safe.
Mine, at least, still appeared unhacked and not associated with any nefarious deeds. The customs agent’s glassy-eyed stare—presumably at whatever window hung before his vision to inform him of evil passers-by—never changed. “Thank you, Mr. Langston. Scans indicate that you brought a selection of personal weaponry into the dome. Please accept the EULA if you wish to keep them with you. If not, you can leave them with me, and they will be returned to you upon your departure from Pallah.”
A window opened in my vision, displaying a lengthy document. I didn’t bother to read it. Sarah?
Standard boilerplate, Langston. Weapons may only be employed in self-defense. There is a long list of penalties for various infractions ranging from inciting fear to outright murder.
Thank you, Sarah. Please accept the terms on my behalf. The licensing agreement went away as my agent applied my digital signature.
“Enjoy your stay on Pallah, Mr. Langston,” the customs agent said.
I nodded to the agent, who neither noticed nor cared. Chan had already passed through and was waiting on me. “Well, we’re here,” she said softly. “Now what?”
“Now we go find Malcolm Copeland.”
Pallah was unlike any place I’d seen before.
During the early years of the diaspora, China, Europe, India, and America had competed to lay claim to as much planetary real estate as possible while other nations focused on deep-space habs. Luna had been dominated by American corporate interests from the outset, but Mars had been fair game. The domes had, in their inception, been microcosms of the old Earth nations that established them, carrying their cultures and biases to the broader solar system. That had faded over the centuries, the national influences slowly being subsumed beneath the monolithic corporations that transcended mere political borders, and the Martian residents had eventually broken away from their faraway Earthbound masters. They’d formed the Martian Republic, with each dome holding the position a state or province might have held on Earth. The strange genesis had left the various domes with their own unique architecture and character despite their shared sovereignty.
I’d done my research on the flight over. I knew that Pallah had originally been a venture of the American government, bringing its own brand of government-contracted capitalism and corporate homogeny. The legacy of that showed in the quick prefab structures that dominated most of the landscape, blocky shapes against the backdrop of the Martian sky. They were sturdy and functional but most of the artistry had been a casualty of the lowest-bidder approach.
It was still early in the Martian day, and if Malcolm Copeland had been re-coiled and slotted neatly back into the life he lived before his ill-fated journey, he would probably be at work. Barging into the offices of a major corporation to try to speak with an employee who didn’t know either of us, about events that he likely didn’t remember, seemed like a poor choice. Instead, Chan started surfing the various directories to track down Copeland’s apartment and find us the nearest hotel.
The Martian Palms wasn’t quite as contradictory as it sounded. There were palm trees in front of it, nearly a dozen of them, each ensconced in a large container made of plastic but molded and painted to look like wood. The soil in which they grew was not Earth soil—not really—but it had been fortified with the nutrients and minerals