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 the body was female, and 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 hoped she’d buy Pickover’s suggestion.
And, after a moment’s more 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 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 demanded.
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.