Author: Alastair Millar

It’s the same whenever I wake up – floating free for those first few seconds of consciousness, aware of sounds but nothing else before the light coalesces into something meaningful. This morning, it’s the noises floating up from the street and through the open window as the day begins, the quiet whine of motors and whir of drones as deliveries are made, and occasional voices as people make their way to work or whatever other destination fate has assigned them.

The soft breathing next to me brings me back to myself, and to the usual question: who am I today?

Oh yes: Benji Bannerjee, Marcie’s husband. She wanted ‘his’ company while he was away on business. Apparently he’s one of those rare men who still gets asked to travel for work, which is presumably how she can afford my services, not to mention the jewellery and all the expensive little knick-knacks around the house.

Why she would choose him and not a favourite sensie star or athlete like most people do isn’t my business. She sent the photos and the payment, so I checked in to the local BodySwap franchise and got fixed up. Not exactly legal, what with the copyright-of-self laws cropping up everywhere, but everybody knows it happens. Here in the Texas Free State it’s the Anti-deepfake & Impersonation Act, which is somehow never enforced. Suits me. So three days later, and here I still am, hubby not being due home until tomorrow.

Marcie reminds me a bit of my first employer, when I started out as a Domestic Companion. Great as the nostalgia trip is, though, I’ll be gone shortly. A little spray of SleepTite to keep her under will make sure we don’t have any dramatic scenes before I leave; don’t want any nonsense with demands to stay and maintain character forever, like I had with that crazy chick in London last year. Also, of course, it will allow me to gather up a small selection of precious things to keep me solvent; that done, I’m out the door. What’s she going to do, show the cops a video of her own husband wandering around the place? Good luck with that. The advert she answered led to a net account that’s already been cleansed. There’ll be no comebacks. Then it’s on to Montreal for a new gig next week.

It’s not a bad lifestyle, bar the occasional existential crisis. I get pampered, kept in luxury even, and other than travel and occasional hotel bills my expenses are met by my clients. The constant modifications keep me fresh, too – I’ve outlasted my manufactured lifespan three times over since I broke my original indenture and ran away. That’s probably a record for my model. Since then, fake ID’s and always being on the move have become habit, but I can always pass for human, and I endure.

Yeah, I could have been somebody – but for now, and for a price, I can be anybody. Pay attention to your surroundings; next time you pass someone in the street who looks vaguely familiar, perhaps it’ll be me.