Mindscan

"Tyler seems to think the biological version of Karen has indeed passed on," said Steiner.

I looked at Karen. These artificial faces didn't always display emotion well; I wondered what she was thinking. After a moment, though, I turned back to Steiner.

"Even so," I said, "Karen's still alive — right here, in Detroit. And the biological Karen wanted this Karen to have her legal rights of personhood."

Steiner had thin, dark eyebrows. He raised them. "Apparently Tyler wants the court to decide if such a transfer is valid."

I shook my head. "But, even if Karen's, um…"

"Skin," said Steiner. "Isn't that the term? Her shed skin?"

I nodded. "Even if her skin has passed on, how would Tyler find that out? Immortex doesn't reveal that information."

"A bribe, perhaps," said Steiner. "How much could it possibly have taken to arrange for someone at High Eden to agree to tip him off when the skin expired?

Given the amount of money that's at stake…"

"Is it a lot?" I said. "I don't mean the whole estate — I mean the portion you left specifically to Tyler."

"Oh, yes," said Karen. "Austin?"

"Although Karen has provided lavishly for a number of charities," he said, "Tyler and his two daughters are the sole individual beneficiaries of Karen's will. They stand to inherit something in excess of forty billion dollars."

"Oh, Christ," I said. I'm not sure what price I'd sell my own mother for, but we were getting near the ballpark…

"You don't want this to go to court, Karen," said Steiner. "It's too risky."

"So what should I do?" asked Karen.

"Buy him off. Offer him a cash payout of, say, twenty percent of the amount he'd inherit. He'll be rich enough."

"Settle?" said Karen. "We've been sued unfairly before, Austin." She looked at me.

"It happens to all successful authors. And my policy is never to settle just to make something go away."

Steiner drew his eyebrows together. "It's safer than taking this one to the courts. The whole legal basis of your transferred personhood is a house of cards; it's a brand-new concept, and there's no case law yet. If you lose…" Steiner's eyes again fell on me "…everyone like you loses." He shook his head. "Take my advice, Karen: nip this in the bud. Buy Tyler off."

I looked at Karen. She was silent for a time, but then she shook her head. "No," she said. "I am Karen Bessarian. And if I have to prove it, I will."

20

"Hello," I said. "Is Dr. Chandragupta around?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but he's left High Eden. He's on his way back to LS Island. Is there something I can help you with?" I opened my mouth to reply, but realized that maybe I was feeling a little better; perhaps the pot had indeed helped a bit. "No," I said. "It's nothing. I'm sure I'll be fine."

I woke up the day after Karen's memorial service with an excruciating headache. I say "the day after" even though we were still in the middle of one of the interminable lunar days: the sun took two weeks to crawl from horizon to horizon here. But High Eden kept a diurnal clock based on Earth's rotation, and Immortex had arbitrarily standardized on the Eastern North American time zone; apparently, we were even going to switch from Daylight Saving Time come October.

But I wasn't thinking about any of that just then. What I was thinking about was how much my head hurt. I'd occasionally had migraines back on Earth, but this was worse, and seemed to affect the top center of my head, not one side. I got out of bed and walked over to my en suite bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face. It didn't help; I still felt as though someone was pounding a chisel through my skullcap, trying to cleave the two hemispheres of my brain — I now understood where the term "splitting headache" came from.

I smoked a joint, hoping that would help — but it didn't. And so I found a chair, and told the phone to call over to the hospital. "Good morning, Mr. Sullivan," said the young black woman who answered.

Karen was down in her office, talking with her other lawyers, her investment counselor, and more — trying to get a handle on what exactly to do about her son's attempt to probate her will.

Me, I was lying on Karen's bed, staring up, as was my habit, at the whiteness of the bedroom ceiling. I wasn't tired, of course — I never was anymore. But lying down like this had long been my thinking posture — it beat that sitting-on-the-toilet position Rodin had tried to pass off as cogitation.

"Hello," I said, looking up into the blankness above. "Hello? Are you there, Jake?"

Nothing. Nothing at all.

I tried to clear my mind, pushing aside all the thoughts about Tyler and betrayal and Rebecca and betrayal and Clamhead and betrayal and…

"Hello," I said, trying again. "Hello?"

And, at last, a faint tickling at the very edges of my perception.

What the—?

Contact! I felt relieved and elated. "Hello," I said again, softly but clearly. "It's me — the other instantiation of Jacob Sullivan."

What other instantiation?

"The one on the outside. The one living Jake's life."