Mindscan

She did so; the front wraparound window was no longer visible from the cabin — meaning we were no longer visible tnrough it. "Thank you," I said. "Now, take your seat again."

There was a pounding noise on the other side of the airlock — someone trying to get us to open up. I ignored it, and instead moved to the communications panel near the airlock. It had a twenty-centimeter videophone screen.

An attractive dark-eyed brunette appeared. "Heaviside Transit Control to Moonbus Four," she said. "What's wrong? Is your airlock malfunctioning? Have you developed a leak?"

"Heaviside, this is Moonbus Four," I said into the camera. "Jacob Sullivan speaking.

There are three other people aboard, including Brian Hades, so do exactly as I say.

No one is to try to enter this Moonbus. I am fully conversant in Moonbus operations — ask Quentin Ashburn; he'll tell you. If I don't get what I want, I'll vent the starboard fuel tank. The monohydrazine will sublimate into a cloud of explosive vapor, and I'll fire the main engine, igniting that cloud. The explosion will take out half of High Eden."

The brunette's eyes were wide. "And you too," she said "Come on — you'll die!"

"I'm dead already," I shouted. Damn it, I was trying to keep it together, but the pounding in my head was increasing. "I'm a shed skin, a discard. I've got no identity, no personhood." I took a deep breath and I swallowed. "I've got nothing to lose."

"Mr. Sullivan—"

"No. Nothing further right now. I don't want to deal with a traffic controller. Get someone on the line who has the power to negotiate. Until then—" I stabbed the OFF switch.

I wish there had been no need to involve other people. But there was. They might have evacuated High Eden, or found some way to launch the moonbus by remote control. I needed there to be more at stake than just equipment, no matter how expensive.

"Now," I said, looking at the two women and Hades, "it's time for introductions. My name is Jacob Sullivan, and I'm from Toronto. I copied my consciousness into an artificial body because I had a devastating disease. But that disease has been cured, and I want to go back home — that's my one demand. I honestly don't want to hurt any of you." I gestured at the Asian woman, being sure to do it with my empty left hand, rather than the one holding the piton gun. "Now you." I said.

The woman looked defiant for a time, then seemed to decide that cooperation couldn't hurt. "My name is Akiko Uchiyama," she said. She was plain, thin, with short hair dyed some light color. "I'm a radio astronomer with the SETI institution at Chemyshov." She paused, then added: "And I have a husband, and twin six-year-old daughters, and I very much want to get back to them."

"And I certainly hope you will," I said. I turned to the white woman, who was pretty, with big eyes and lots of dark hair. "You."

"I'm Chloe Hansen," she said. "I'm the head nutritionist and dietitian here at High Eden."

"So you're the one," I said.

"The one what?"

"The one tampering with my food."

She was a good actress, I'd give her that. "What are you talking about?"

I ignored that and turned to face Hades. "No doubt Chloe knows you, and I sure as hell do, but we may be here long time so you might as well introduce yourself to Akiko."

Hades crossed his arms in front of his chest and frowned, but he complied. "I'm Brian Hades, the chief administrator of High Eden."

Akiko's eyes narrowed. "And so his complaint is with you," she,said, pointing at me.

"Give him what he wants, and this ends, right?"

"I can't do that," said Hades. "He signed a contract. Besides, our entire business model—"

"Screw your business model!" snapped Akiko. "Just do whatever he says."

"I won't. The new version of him back on Earth has rights, and—"

"And I've got rights, too!" said Akiko. "So does — Chloe, is it? We've got rights!"

"Yes, you do," I said. "And I don't — not at the moment, that's what this is all about.

When I get my rights back, this will be over."

The phone bleeped. I went over to the panel and hit the ACCEPT button. "Hello," said a male voice with a classy Iritish accent. "Is Mr. Sullivan available?"

"This is Jacob Sullivan," I said. "To whom am I speaking?" Hearing classy British accents makes me talk like that.

"My name is Gabriel Smythe, and I'm going to have the privilege of being your principal contact as we sort out this spot of bother."

Smythe — I knew that name. I frowned, then it came to me. He was the small, florid man with the platinum hair who'd performed the memorial service for Karen Bessarian.

"Are you in the docking control room?" I asked.

"Yes. I'm with Ms. Bortolotto, whom you spoke to earlier."

"I remember you. You performed that service for Karen. But you're not a rabbi … are you?"

"I'm not going to lie to you, Mr. Sullivan; I assure you of that. I'm the head psychologist for Immortex."

"Head psychologist." I chuckled. "I don't think there was any other kind."

"I beg your — oh, I get it. Yes, quite."