Frank Kincaid was not a happy man. He wasn’t even Frank Kincaid. At least, not the original.

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It started like this: you want something done right, do it yourself. Don’t have the time? Copy yourself into a shiny new vat-grown body and send it instead. Expensive, certainly, but if the job was important enough, the payoff sufficiently high, you’d be crazy to send anyone else.

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But what if the job was unpleasant? What if it was something you didn’t want to do? Well, that was easy too – you adjust the copy, tweak it a little so it won’t mind getting its hands dirty or, if it does, it’ll be stubborn enough to do it anyway. And then, assuming you’re a decent human being, you meet up afterwards, buy yourself a few beers, pat yourself on the back and reintegrate.

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Assuming.

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He glared at the barman defiantly and ordered a whisky. The man was a good foot and a half taller than he was, but then, so was most of the room.

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There are places on Mars where people don’t ask questions when a paying customer places an order. Kincaid had hoped this particular dive might be one of them. He was aware of being stared at and wondered if he’d misjudged the situation. There was an air of baked-in malice about the place, the sort of crustiness acquired when petty larceny was allowed to ripen, mature into full-blown lawlessness and then fester, like a wheel of gorgonzola left too long in the sun. He felt like a racehorse that had wandered into a dog food factory and asked if there was anything to eat.

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Of course, if you’re not a decent human being, you take the money and run. Saves having to fill your head with all those unsettling memories. Then your copy would find itself stranded somewhere – say, a seedy bar in the low-rent part of a half-finished habitat dome on Mars – with no money, the wrong body, a head full of edited memories and personality algorithms, and exactly one certainty to cling to: that the real Them, whoever They were, whatever Their actual name might be, was an absolute, first class, no-holds-barred, unrelenting bastard.

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As mental life rafts went, that one was pretty tiny, but Kincaid embraced it with a tenacity that must have cost his original self a fortune in psychosurgery bills to acquire.

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The barman peered down at him and laughed. “Nice try, kid. Orange juice or lemonade?”

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Kid. Like Kincaid’s current body, that one was never going to get old.

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He sighed and brought up his bank account, proffering a shiny, virtual ¥2,000 note. As bribes went, it wasn’t much, but he was low on funds. “How about a coffee, and maybe you could Irish it up for me? And throw in a packet of peanuts, would you? I’m starving.”

The barman shook his head in disgust but took the money anyway. He poured something oily into a cup, added a splash of what could be described as authentic Highland whisky, provided you weren’t fussy about which planet the highland in question was situated on, and placed it in front of Kincaid alongside a packet of synthetic protein-grow peanuts.

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Kincaid took his supplies and retreated to a quiet table in the corner, dodging beer-carrying servitor drones and the threevee wrestling match suplexing its way across the middle of the room.

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“For the love of God, kid, read the sign. No smoking.”

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Kincaid glanced guiltily at the cigar poised halfway to his mouth and returned it, unlit, to his top pocket.

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That was another thing. Would it have been too much to ask to give himself a more age-appropriate set of habits to go with the new body? Say, a keen interest in football, sucking his thumb and fizzy drinks from around the solar system. As opposed to booze, tobacco and womanising – the latter being particularly problematic. There was an old joke that went, “I wouldn’t touch any woman who’d be interested in the likes of me”. Ha. Welcome to Self Loathing, population: one.

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He glowered into his coffee. A couple of the locals were nudging each other, looking his way and laughing. He tried to ignore them.

“Jen,” he subvocalised, “any interesting contracts in the area?”

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Genevieve burst into glorious life in the corner of his retinal HUD and pursed ruby lips. “Some old lady’s offering fifty thou’ for the safe return of her missing cat?”

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“Hysterical laughter. For the last time, I don’t find pets. Next?”

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Above the bar, the lighting strips flickered. The pair of muscle-bound wrestlers vanished into thin air, and then the whole street blacked out. The room was plunged into the eerie half-light of a Martian evening.

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There was a collective groan and a smattering of comments about the power company and Governor Chou, and what they could do to each other. Kincaid barely even noticed.

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Third time this week.

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“Hang on,” he subbed, “fifty grand? For a cat? Mark that one down as a definite ‘maybe’.”

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“Sure thing, hun. Halcyon Interplanetary Industries have a bounty of one hundred and fifty thousand yuan on a Tricia Altmann, wanted for embezzlement. Civil case, so bring her in alive. I’m flashing up her corporate ID, address, known contacts and immediate family.”

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A hundred and fifty? I owe more than that in rent.

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He scanned the data sourly. “Aren’t they generosity incarnate. What did she do, make off with the petty cash?” He sniffed his drink, taking in the smoky notes of charcoal, burnt toast and rocket fuel. He took a cautious sip. Ugh. “How about something with a little punch? I’m not getting off this rock on cats and suits.”

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That earned him a stern look from eyes the colour of molten bronze. “Cats and suits pay the bills, Frank. ‘Punch’ gets you killed.”

The lights came back on, and Kincaid flinched as an enormous fist flew through the air not far from his head. The locals cheered as the wrestler took his opponent to the canvas in a cloud of perspiration, big hair and testosterone.

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“What are you, my mum?” He did his best not to look fazed. “Come on, something in seven figures, at least. Make it worth my while.”

She raised an eyebrow but let it pass. “You know I hate the ‘armed and dangerous’ file.”

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“We’re not having this discussion again. I’m going back to Earth. I’m going to find the real me. I’m going to punch him for a while, and then I’m going to bodynap the bugger.” He paused. “Okay, maybe reverse the order on that one and switch bodies first. The point is, I’m getting my body back, and my life, and the real me can have this one – see how he likes it. That’s going to take money. Lots of money. And that means spraying bullets – no two ways about it.”

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There was a burst of gunfire in the distance, the sharp report of a pistol followed by the rapid boom-boom-boom of high-calibre automatic weaponry. He wondered vaguely if it was the Russian mafia or the triads. Between them, the two sets of post-communist criminal superpowers owned everything east of Turkey and north of India, and a fair chunk of the rest of the solar system besides. Unfortunately, that included at least half of Mars.

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Genevieve gave him a Look. “It’s only because I care.”

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“You’re programmed to care. Don’t make it sound noble.”

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He regretted it instantly, but the damage was done. Synthetic hurt feelings washed over technicolour features. Sculpted brows drew together in fury.

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Now look what you’ve gone and done.

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One of the locals chose that moment to saunter over, employing the kind of deliberate swagger that gave you time to relieve yourself before the show began. He was a retired merc by the looks of him, all muscle aug and attitude, with a cybernetic arm and skin so leathery you couldn’t tell where the flesh ended and his clothing began.

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Kincaid considered his drink ruefully. This is turning into a lot of trouble for one polluted coffee. He wished he’d picked a different bar. He wished he’d got changed first.

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In Kincaid’s line of work, there were advantages to being stuck inside the body of a ten-year-old child. The marks rarely noticed him coming, for one thing, and they certainly never saw him as a threat. He couldn’t help but feel the school uniform was failing, on this occasion, to render him inconspicuous.

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The locals had lost interest in the threevee and were watching on with an air of expectation, like a pride of lions scenting blood. The important thing, Kincaid reminded himself as the mercenary loomed over him, was never to show fear. He took a knife from his satchel and handed it over.

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“Here, hold this.”

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The mercenary peered at it. The blade was nine inches long and serrated in that special way that wouldn’t necessarily help when it came to stabbing someone, but would significantly increase the chance of spontaneous heart failure beforehand. It looked very natural, in that metal grip.

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Kincaid shook his head, resisting the urge to wet himself. “No, like this.” He uttered a silent prayer and casually adjusted the mechanical hand, until the knife was at the right angle.

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Don’t even blink now.

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He sat back in his chair and threw a peanut. The nut ricocheted off the blade, struck the merc in the forehead and bounced back. Kincaid caught it neatly in his mouth.

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“Took me ages to learn that,” he said, chewing.

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If there was one thing you learned, living among hearty frontier folk twice your size, it was how to stare the lion squarely in the eye.

“Amazing how bored you get,” he added, “in between killing people.” He retrieved the knife from the merc’s unresisting grasp and began to clean under his fingernails. “Summing I can help you with, was there?”

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There was a long pause while the other man considered this. Kincaid occupied it by counting the available exits and calculating the odds of successfully reaching any of them in one still-recognisable piece. Not tremendous, in his professional opinion.

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The mercenary grinned. Somewhere in the mix of black and gold teeth was a trace of humour. “Can I have a peanut?”

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Kincaid tossed him the bag and the man sauntered cheerfully back to the bar. There was a ripple of laughter from the room.

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And breathe.

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He gulped down the coffee and waited for his heart to settle into something like its usual rhythm. “Listen, Jen. I—” The apology got no further than the back of his throat, or its mental equivalent, where it twisted into a grunt of frustration.

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“No, you listen. If you want to get yourself killed, Frank Kincaid, you can do it without my help.” She paused. “Hold on… This is interesting. There’s been a shooting, practically round the corner. Someone’s lighting up a housing fab, it’s all over the newsfeed. Wait, never mind. These guys are Russian mafia, way out of our league.”

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He sat up straighter. “Go on.”

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“Frank, no. They think it’s the Raminov brothers.”

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Kincaid grinned at her. “What, Lev and Vadim? There’s an eighteen million yuan bounty on those boys.” That will do very nicely. “Come on, hit me up with the directions.”

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“It won’t even cover the hospital fees. Frank, there’s two dead badges at the scene. You’d have to be crazy, I won’t let you.”

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“We don’t have time for this. The plod will be there any minute.” Automatic fire sounded in the distance, and he cocked his head. Russian mafia or triads, indeed. Well, that answers that. “Practically round the corner, you say? We can argue on the way.”

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She sulked all the way there. Well, he was a bastard, right? Case in point: young Frank, two years out of New Scotland Yard Crime Academy, working traffic in south London. That’s London, Earth. As in, real air, real whisky, real coffee. There he was, admiring the congestion, when a black roadster came screaming out of a side street, hotly pursued by an ’81 Ford Classique. They both swerved to avoid the gridlock, the Classique mistimed it, mounted the kerb and ran over a little boy.

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Messy. Kincaid still remembered the shock of staring down into that ruined face as he dialled the emergency services, hoping against hope the boy’s parents were among the privileged few who could afford personality backup, because it didn’t take a medical degree to see nothing was going to be salvaged from what was left of that poor skull. The driver was beside Kincaid, sobbing that he was a copper in pursuit of a suspect, he hadn’t seen the lad, oh Christ, he came out of nowhere.

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No sympathy. The man’s career was over, of course, and he didn’t try to fight it, but the higher-ups wanted to paint it as a freak accident. No Reckless Endangerment, just a blameless copper in the wrong place at the wrong time, resigning out of guilt and nothing more.

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Kincaid wouldn’t have it. That much speed in a built-up area, someone was going to get killed, and he testified accordingly. Two more ruined lives to add to those of the family – the boy wasn’t backed up, so it was jail for the officer, and Kincaid was drummed out of the force on a trumped-up disciplinary a few months later. Or maybe it wasn’t so trumped up. He’d had a few issues since the accident, hadn’t exactly been cooperative with the mandatory trauma counselling. So some punches were thrown – big deal.

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The fact was, he’d had it easy, threw it all away on a point of principle. And for what? To hammer another nail into the coffin of a man already riddled with guilt? Arsehole.

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They drew up outside the fab, and Kincaid pulled himself back to the present. There was no sign of the Russians. He checked the action on his Glock needlegun, making sure the concealed armslide was unobstructed, and swung himself out of the beat-up VW that currently served his transportation needs. It was nearly as old as he was, the wheels so cambered as to be downright bandy, but he was fond of the little car. It was one of the few things he owned that could be considered a luxury, if you squinted right and didn’t mind the smell.

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A trio of camerabots jockeyed for position outside the fab. Sunlight filtered through the dust-caked panes of the geodesic dome above, bathing the streets in a wash of crimson, like old illustrations of the Martian surface from the days when people thought the Red Planet was red, rather than a muddy shade of russet. Kincaid pushed past the hovering bots, drawing angry electronic squawks as their live feeds filled with the back of his skull.

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A shot rang out from inside the building as he reached the entrance, followed by a burst of heavy fire. Kincaid flattened himself against the wall. The distant wailing of sirens gave him about a two minute head start on the police – he couldn’t claim a bounty for men who were already in custody. He unclasped his satchel, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

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The foyer was dimly lit and had the feel of a run-down hotel that had been converted, shoddily, into housing after the colonial bubble burst. Grubby carpet that might once have been beige ran beneath cracked plaster walls, past a cheap microse reception desk made up to look like wood. The desk was unattended, and there was no one about.

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Kincaid decided against using the lift, given the state of the building, and was halfway up the first flight of stairs when more automatic fire rang out, answered by a couple of single shots. Next floor, somewhere off to the right. The bloody forms of two private police were waiting for him on the landing. No pulse.

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He pushed through the door on the right and followed the gunfire down a dim corridor. Half the lighting strips were out and one in every two of the doorways had been crudely sealed up as part of the conversion, leaving the brickwork exposed. No one had even bothered to paint over.

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He peered round the corner and then ducked back hastily. Two men were taking cover beside a kicked-in door, automatic shotguns trained on whatever lay beyond. They had the kind of faces born of a lifetime of violence – broken noses, cauliflower ears, more scar tissue than unmarred flesh. Lev and Vadim. Bullet holes pierced the plaster behind them.

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There was a shot from inside the apartment and the shotguns thundered in response. Kincaid triggered his armslide and levelled the Glock just as the pair piled through the doorway, firing as they went.

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Am I about to get caught in the middle of a mob war?

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He followed stealthily, pausing outside to take stock.

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The Russians were advancing down a short hallway, taking aim at the pulverised remains of the far door. The wreckage of a hand basin was visible through the splinters, along with a cramped bathtub and, fallen across it and bleeding heavily, a middle-aged woman. The handgun slipped from her grasp as Genevieve flashed up a photo ID.

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Tricia Altmann, formerly of Halcyon Interplanetary Industries.

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Something tells me these boys aren’t interested in a one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-yuan bounty for making off with the petty cash.

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Who the hell is she?