Mindscan

When I arrived today, he was already there, shooting baskets from a standing position. The hoops were hugely high up — a full ten meters — so it required a lot of eye-hand coordination to sink the ball, but he was managing pretty well.

"Hey, Malcolm," I said, coming into the court. My voice echoed the way it did in such places.

"Jacob," he said, looking over at me. He sounded a bit wary.

"What?" I said.

"Just hoping not to get my head torn off," said Malcolm.

"Huh? Oh, yesterday. Look, sorry — I don't know what came over me. But, listen, have you been watching the TV from Earth?"

Malcolm sent the ball flying up. It went through the hoop, and then made the long, long fall down in slow motion. "Some."

"Seen any news?"

"No. And it's been a pleasure not to."

"Well," I said, "your son is making headlines down there.''

Malcolm caught the ball and turned to me. "Really?"

"Uh-huh. He's representing Karen Bessarian — the uploaded Karen — in a case about her legal personhood being challenged by her son."

Malcolm dribbled the ball a bit. "That's my boy!"

"I hate to say this," I said, "but I hope he loses. I hope the other Karen loses." I held up my hands, and Malcolm tossed the ball to me.

"Why?"

"Well," I said, "now that I'm cured, I want to go home. Brian Hades says I can't because the other me is the legal person. But if that gets struck down…" I dribbled the ball as I moved around the court, then sprung up rising higher and higher and higher, well above Malcolm's head, then tipped the ball into the basket.

As I was floating down to the ground, Malcolm said. "How far along is the trial?"

"They say it's only going to last another couple of days." I folded my legs a bit to absorb the shock of my landing, but there really wasn't much.

"And you think there'll be a decision soon that'll change your circumstances?" asked Malcolm, who was bending over to collect the ball.

"Well, yes," I said. "Sure. Why not?"

He turned around and gently bounced the ball a couple of times. "Because nothing happens fast in the law. Suppose Deshawn wins — and he's a damn good lawyer; he probably will." He took a bead on the net and threw the ball. It sailed up and up, and then, on its way down, went tiirough the hoop. "But winning the first round doesn't matter." He ran over — great loping strides — and caught the ball before it hit the ground. "The other side will appeal, and they'll have to go through the whole thing again."

He threw the ball again, but this time I think he deliberately missed, as if he were illustrating his point. "And suppose Deshawn loses," he said. "Well, then, his side will appeal."

I went to fetch the ball. "Yes, but—"

"And then the appeal will be appealed, and, for a case like this, it'll go all the way to the Supreme Court."

I had the ball, but I just held it in my hands. "Oh, surely it's not that big."

"Are you kidding?" said Malcolm. "It's huge!" He let the last word echo for a few second, then: "We're talking about the end of inheritance taxes. Immortal beings never give up their estates, after all. If it hasn't already, I'm sure the IRS will join the case. This will drag out for years … and, anyway, all of this is just in the United States. You're a Canadian; U.S. law doesn't apply to you."

"Yes, but surely similar cases will be fought in Canada."

"Look, if you're not going to throw the damn ball—" I tossed it to him. "Thanks."

He started to dribble it. "Immortex may be located in Canada, because of the liberal laws up there." He paused, then looked at the floor. "I mean down there. But how many Canadians have uploaded so far? Most of Immortex's clients are rich Americans or Europeans." He leapt up, sailing higher and higher, and did a slam-dunk. As he drifted down, he said. "And you don't have any children, do you?"

I shook my head.

Back on the floor now, he said, "Then there's not likely to be a battle over your estate."

My heart was sinking. "Maybe that's true, but…"

He was heading over to pick up the ball. "Plus, even if the U.S. strikes down the transference of personhood, Canada might not — you guys have gone in a different direction on lots of issues. Christ, a poodle can legally marry a four-slice toaster in Canada. Can you really see your country slamming the door on uploaded consciousness?"

"Perhaps," I said.

He had the ball in his hands now. "Maybe. But it'll take years. Years. You and I will be long dead by the time this is all resolved." He threw the ball to me, but I didn't catch it. It bounced along, the sound it was making matching the pounding that was starting again in my head.

As we rose when Judge Herrington entered the courtroom the next day, I noted that he looked like he hadn't gotten enough sleep the night before. Of course, I hadn't gotten any, and Porter's disassembling about uploads and sleep was bothering me.

Sorry — did I say disassembling? I meant dissembling, of course. Christ, all this talk about us not being real was getting to me, I guess.