Mindscan

"In fact, here's a trick. If you want to beat an old pro at tennis, do this: let him whip your butt in a practice match, then compliment him on his technique. Ask him to show you exactly what he's doing that's better than what you're doing; get him to articulate the process, and demonstrate it in slow motion. Then challenge him to a rematch. His consciousness will still be dwelling on how tennis is played, on what you're supposed to be doing — and that will interfere with his zombie. Only when his consciousness retreats to the sidelines, and the zombie starts playing the game on its own, will he be back at top form again."

Poe spread his arms as if all this were obvious. "Same thing with driving. If you're about to hit another car, you can't stop to think about pumping the brakes, or how to turn to avoid fishtailing, or whatever. Consciousness will get you killed; you have to leave it to your zombie to react without the delays caused by conscious thought."

"But can't you take this all one silly step further, Professor Poe?" said Lopez, looking not at him, but at the jurors as if she were speaking on their behalf. "I mean, I know I'm conscious; I know I'm not a zombie. But, if we believe what you're saying, you could be a zombie, just going through the motions of giving expert testimony without any real awareness. Doesn't this all devolve to solipsism — the position that I am the only one who really exists?"

Poe nodded. "Up until a year or two ago, I would have agreed with you. Solipsism is arrogance writ large, and there's no rational basis for believing that you, Maria Lopez, are the chosen one, the only real, conscious human being who has ever existed. But Immortex has changed that." He held up a pair of fingers. "Now there are two kinds of actors on the stage. One kind are humans, who evolved from a long line of hominids and primates and earlier mammals and mammal-like reptiles and amphibians and fishes, and on and on back to the first single-celled organisms — things very much like the paramecia Dr. Porter talked about.

"And the other is what Immortex calls a Mindscan, an up-loaded consciousness. A reasonable person can, by extrapolation from his own inner life, recognize that others are conscious, too — or, more precisely, that others have a conscious rider in their zombie bodies. But as far as I'm concerned, all Immortex has demonstrated is that they can recreate the zombie part; there is zero evidence before this court that the consciousness that once dwelt in the biological Karen Bessarian has been duplicated. Yes, the lights are on in that — that thing sitting there — but there is no reason at all to think that anyone is at home. The fact that Mindscans don't dream is damning proof that this is true."

Poe looked into the seating gallery, past me to where Dr. Porter was, and pointed an accusing ringer. "Indeed, Andrew Porter himself said he doesn't know what consciousness is, and that song-and-dance he gave about microtubules is just obfuscation. Whatever consciousness really is, there's no positive evidence that it's being transferred in the Mindscan process." Poe crossed his arms in front of his chest. "The burden is entirely on Immortex to prove that they have transferred it, and, as I say, there's zero evidence that that is in fact the case."

28

I went back to Brian Hades's office in the High Eden administration building — and I must say, he was getting pissed off. "Mr. Sullivan, really, we've been down this road before. You can't return to Earth, so please, please, please relax and envy things here. You haven't even begun to scratch the surface of the activities we offer."

The pills they'd been giving me were tranquilizers, of course — I was sure of that.

Trying to dope me up, keep me placid. I'd flushed the rest of them down the recycler. "It's autumn on Earth," I said. "At least, in the Northern Hemisphere. Do you offer walking through a field of fallen leaves? Soon it'll be winter. Do you offer ice hockey on a frozen pond? Skiing? Sunsets that aren't just a ball of light dropping below a rocky horizon, but are actually tinged with color and shrouded by bands of cloud?"

"Mr. Sullivan, be reasonable."

"Reasonable! I never asked to be … to be a fucking astronaut."

"In point of fact, you did. And, besides, there are things you can do here that you could never do on Earth. Have you tried flying yet? You know, it's possible to fly here, under your own power, with big enough strap-on wings. We offer that, over in the gymnasium." He paused, as if expecting me to respond. I didn't.

"And mountain climbing! You know, you're more than welcome to go outside here.

The rock climbing is fabulous in the low gravity; the walls of Heaviside are great for climbing."