Mindscan

"Well, as I said, we record the configuration of the neural networks — the positions and interconnections of every neuron in your brain — but we don't record the pattern of cellular automata on the surface of the microtubules within those neurons. See, tubulins — the little kernels that make up the microtubule cob — can flip between two states, which I've been showing as black and white in the graphics, here, so that they make the complex animated patterns you've seen the surface of the microtubule. But the two states aren't really black and white. Rather, they're defined by where an electron happens to be — in the tubulin's alpha subunit pocket, or in its beta subunit pocket." He smiled at the jurors. "I know, I know — it sounds like gobbledygook.

But the point is that this is a quantum-mechanical process, and that means we can't even theoretically measure the states without disturbing them."

Porter turned back to face Deshawn. "But as our quantum fog condenses into the nanogel of the brain, it is briefly quantally entangled with the biological original, and so the cellular-automata patterns precisely match. And, if micro-tubules are indeed the source of consciousness, then that's when the consciousness is transferred to the duplicate. Of course, the entanglement quickly breaks down, but by the time it does the rules are being applied again in the new cellular automata, so that, to go back to our earlier metaphor, the squares are flipping back and forth from state to state."

Porter looked now at Karen, sitting at the plaintiff's table. "So whatever it is that makes up consciousness — neural nets, or even cellular automata on the surface of microtubules — it doesn't matter; we make a total, complete, perfect transference of it. The new artificial brain is as self-aware, as real, as conscious as the old — and it is every bit the same person. That lovely woman sitting there is, without a doubt, Karen Bessarian."

Deshawn nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Porter. No further questions."

I'd been told we'd never be allowed any contact with people back on Earth, but for once Immortex was bending its vaunted rules. As I sat in a chair in Dr. Ng's office, the chiseled, bearded face of Pandit Chandragupta looked up at me from her desktop monitor. He was now back in Baltimore — on Earth, lucky bastard — while I was still stuck up here on the moon.

"You should have said something sooner, Mr. Sullivan," he said. "We can only treat that which is brought to our attention."

"I'd just had brain surgery," I replied, exasperated. "I thought headaches went with the territory."

I waited while my words reached Earth and his made their way back to me. "No, these should not be occurring. I suspect they will indeed go away. The cause, I think, is a neuro-transmitter imbalance. We have radically altered the blood-flow pattern to your brain, and I suspect that reuptake is being interfered with. That can certainly cause headaches of the type you've described. Your brain will adjust; everything should go back to normal eventually. And, of course, Dr. Ng, I'm sure, will prescribe something for the pain, although that will treat only the symptom, not the underlying cause." He shifted his gaze to look at the woman seated next to me.

"Dr. Ng, what have you got there?"

"My thought would be to give him Toraplaxin, unless you can think of a reason why it'd be contraindicated in this case."

A pause again, then: "No, no. That should be fine. Say 200 milligrams to start, twice a day, yes?"

"Yes, yes. I'll get our dispensary to—

But Chandragupta, down on Earth, hadn't intended to yield the floor, I guess, because he was still talking. "Now, Mr. Sullivan, there can be other problems associated with large fluctuations in neurotransmitter levels. Depression, for one.

Have you felt any of that?"

Anger was more like it — but my anger, of course, was fully justified. "No."

The time-lag pause, then a nod, and more words: "Another possibility is sudden mood swings. Have you experienced any signs of that?"

I shook my head. "No."

The pause, then: "Any paranoia?"

"No, nothing, doctor."

Chandragupta nodded. "Good, good. Let us know if anything like that develops."

"Absolutely," I said.

The trial had recessed for lunch — or at least for a noontime break; neither Karen, nor I, nor Malcolm ate anything, of course, although Deshawn downed two cheeseburgers and more Coke than I would have thought it possible to fit in a human stomach. And then it was Maria Lopez's turn to take a whack at Porter.

Porter seemed implacable, although, as always, his eyebrows were in constant motion. He also had the advantage of being a good half-meter taller than Lopez; even seated, he seemed to loom over her.

"Mr. Porter," she began — but Porter cut her off.

"Not to go into picayune distinctions," he said, smiling at the judge, "but it's Dr. Porter, actually."

"Of course," said Lopez. "My apologies. You said you are an employee of Immortex, correct?"

"Yes."

"Are you also a stockholder?"

"Yes."