Free Identity Theft by Robert J. Sawyer

an artificial body’s makeup; I just didn’t happen to know what they were, and, anyway, they probably varied from model to model. If I could be sure to 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 . But 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. If I shot her, and somehow got away, they’d hunt me down. And if I didn’t get away, she would be attacking me in self-defense.
    “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 forty thousand 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, of course, 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 it.
    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 backwards, 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 an end to that in sight.” I cocked the hammer,