Mindscan

Instead, it seemed Karen spent most of her time on the phone, talking to her literary agent in New York; her film agent in Hollywood; her American editor, also in New York; and her British editor in London.

There was a lot to talk about: Karen was bringing them all up to speed on her new status as a Mindscan. I couldn't help overhearing some of it; I really wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but these new ears were just so darned good. Everyone she spoke to seemed excited, not only because Karen was thinking about writing a new novel — she hadn't felt so energetic in years, she said — but also because they all seemed to think there'd be enormous publicity if she did; Karen was the first-ever novelist to transfer her consciousness.

I wandered around Karen's house; the thing was huge. She'd given me a quick tour the first day, but it had all been so much to absorb. Still, she'd told me to feel free to poke around, and so I did, looking at the paintings on the walls (all originals, of course), and the thousands of printed books, and her awards cases — yes, plural.

Trophies, certificates, medallions, some great phallic thing called a Hugo, something else called the Newbery, dozens more, and—

…not sure this is what…

I stopped dead in my tracks, strained to listen.

…could be a mistake…

There was a faint whir from the house's air conditioning, and an even fainter whir from some mechanism or other inside my body, but, still, just at the threshold of perception, there were also words.

…if you see what I mean…

"Hello?" I said, feeling funny speaking aloud when there was no one around.

"Hello?"

What the—? Who's that?

"It's me. It's Jake Sullivan."

I'm Jake Sullivan.

"Apparently. And you're not the biological original, are you?"

What? No, no. He's off on the moon.

"But there's only supposed to be one of us — one upload."

That's right. So who the hell are you?

"Umm, I'm the legal copy."

Yeah? How do you know I'm not?

"Well, where are you?"

Toronto — I think. At least, I don't remember being taken anywhere.

"But where exactly are you?"

Well, I guess it's the Immortex facility. But I've never seen this room before.

"What does it look like?"

Blue walls — hey, by the way, I'm no longer color-blind. What about you?

"Same thing."

Amazing, isn't it?

"What else is in the room?"

Table. A bed, like in a doctor's office. A diagram of a brain on one wall.

"Any windows? Can you see outside?"

No. Just a door.

"Are you free to come and go as you please?"

I — I don't know.

"Well, where did you spend last night?"

I don't remember. Here, I suppose…

"How are you instantiated? In a synthetic body?"

Yes — precisely the one I ordered.

"So am I. Is there anyone else around? Any other Mindscans?"

Not that I can see. What about you? Where are you?

"In Detroit."

What the hell are you doing there?

"Doesn't matter." Funny; I don't know why I demurred — especially from myself.

"But I've been to our house in Toronto."

So you are the official, recognized instantiation, then?

"Yes."

And I'm some — some bootleg copy…

"So it seems."

But why?

"I have no idea. But it isn't right. There's only supposed to be one instantiation."

What — what would you do with me, if you found me?

"Pardon?"

You want me shut off, don't you? I'm an affront to your sense of self.

"Umm, well…"

I'm not sure I should help you. I mean, I don't like being trapped here, but it beats the alternative you'd propose.

"Look, whatever Immortex is up to, it has to be stopped."

I … perhaps … if you'll…

"I'm losing you. You're breaking up…"

Someone coming … I…

And he was gone. I just hoped he had the good sense not to tip his hand — electronic, battery-driven hand though it might be.

The death of Karen Bessarian came as a shock to all of us on the moon. I mean, I knew intellectually that all these other shed skins were going to die soon, but to have one of them actually expire sent a ripple though the entire community.