Robert Sawyer - Mindscan

It looked fabulous but…

But I couldn’t smell it at all. The olfactory sensors I’d been provided with were geared to those things that were crucial for safety: the odors of gas leaks, of burning wood. The meat, the onions, the tomato sauce, the warm bread of the crust—none of it registered.

But they were clearly registering on Tyler. I’m sure he wasn’t doing it to be cruel, but I could see him inhaling deeply, drawing in the wonderful—they must be wonderful, I knew they were wonderful—smells. A look of anticipation grew across his face, and then he bit into his piece, making that glorious grimace that suggested the roof of his mouth was burning.

“How is it?” I asked.

“Mmmmfph…” He paused, swallowed. “Not bad at all.”

It was decadent indeed—but, then again, with over-the-counter drugs that dissolved arterial plaque, and others that prevented fat from accumulating, it really wasn’t that much of an indulgence … for him. But for me, it was something I’d never enjoy again.

No, not never. Sugiyama had said this version of the body was only the current state-of-the-art. It was infinitely upgradeable. Eventually…

Eventually.

I watched Tyler eat.

After Tyler left, Karen and I sat on her living-room couch, talking. “So, what did you think of Tyler?” Karen asked.

“He doesn’t like me,” I said.

“What kid does like the man who’s dating his mother?”

“I suppose, but…” I trailed off, then, a moment later, continued. “No, I shouldn’t complain. I mean, at least he seems more accepting of you now that you’ve uploaded than my mother was of me—or than my friends were, for that matter.”

She asked what I meant, and I told her about my disastrous visit to my mother’s place. Karen was terrifically warm and supportive, holding my hand as I talked. But I guess I was in a pissy mood, because before I knew it, we were arguing—and I hate, hate, hate arguing with people. But Karen had said, “It doesn’t really matter what your mother thinks.”

“Of course it does,” I snapped. “Can you imagine how difficult this is for her? She carried me in her womb. She gave birth to me. She breast-fed me. Except that none of those things happened to this me.”

“I am a mother myself,” said Karen, “and I did all those things with Tyler.”

“No, you didn’t,” I replied. “The other Karen did.”

“Well, yes, technically, but—”

“It’s not just a technical point. It’s not hair-splitting. Man, I get so tired of this—of being stared at, of people treating me like some kind of thing . And maybe they’re right. Hell, even my dog doesn’t recognize me.”

“Your dog is dumb; all dogs are. And your friends and your mother are wrong. They’re just being stupid.”

“They’re not stupid. Don’t call them that.”

“Well, the attitude they’re taking certainly is. I presume all those people you mentioned are younger than me. If I can come to grips with this, they should be able to, as well, and—”

“Why? Because you say so?” My, I was in a bad mood. “Because the great novelist would write the story so that it had a happy ending?”

Karen let go of my hand, but, after a moment, she spoke. “It’s not that. It’s just that people should be more understanding. I mean, think of all the money we’ve spent. If they—”

“What difference does it make how much this cost? You can’t buy acceptance.”

“No, of course not, but—”

“And you can’t force people to feel about you the way you want them to.”

I was sure Karen was getting angry, although the usual physiological signs—reddening of the face, a change to the vocal timbre—were absent. “You’re wrong,” she said. “We’re entitled to—”

“We’re entitled to nothing ,” I said. “We can hope all we want, but we can’t demand.”

“Yes, we can. If—”

“That’s just wishful thinking,” I said.

“No, it’s not, damn it.” She’d crossed her arms in front of her chest. “It’s our right , and we’ve got to make others see that.”

“You’re dreaming,” I said.

And now her voice did distort, the words getting a fuzzy edge to them. “I am not dreaming. We have to be firm on this.”

I was getting quite worked up, too. “I don’t—” I cut myself off. I was feeling enormous anxiety, just as I always did when I got into an argument. Looking away, I said, “Fine.”

“What?” said Karen.

“You’re right. I concede. You win.”

“You can’t just fold like that.”

“It’s not worth fighting about.”

“Of course it is.”

I was still feeling anxious; indeed, it felt almost like panic. “I don’t want to fight,” I said.

“Couples fight, Jake. It’s healthy. It’s how we get to the bottom of things. We can’t just stop with the issue unresolved.”

There was a sensation that must have been the mental correlate of a pounding heart.

“Fighting never resolves anything,” I said, still unable to look at her.

“God damn it, Jake. We have to be able to disagree without—oh.” She stopped. “Oh, I see. I get it.”

“What?”

“Jake, I’m not fragile. I’m not going to collapse in front of you.”

“What? Oh…” My father. Jesus, she was insightful; I hadn’t seen that myself. I turned back to face her. “You’re right. God, I had no idea.” I paused, then said in my loudest voice, “Damn it, Karen, you’re full of shit!”

She broke into a huge grin. “That’s the spirit! And, no, I’m not—you are! And here’s why…”

I was so pissed off now at being stuck on the moon, it was startling to meet another person my age who was thrilled to be here. But Dr. Pandit Chandragupta was precisely that.

“Thank you,” he kept saying over and over again, in Brian Hades’s office. “Thank you, thank you. I have always been wanting to go into space—such a thrill!”

I was sitting in a chair. Brian Hades was in his own, bigger chair on the other side of his kidney-shaped desk. For his part, Chandragupta was standing by the round window, looking out over the lunar landscape.

“I’m glad you were able to come, doctor,” I said.

He turned to face me. He had a lean, chiseled face, with dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark beard. “Oh, so am I! So am I!”

“Yes,” I said, but of course stopped myself before I added, “I think we’ve established that.”

“And you must be glad, too!” said Chandragupta. “Your condition is quite rare, but I’ve performed this procedure twice now and it has been a complete success.”

“Is there anything special we should do for Mr. Sullivan afterwards?” asked Hades.

Send me home , I thought.

Chandragupta shook his head. “Not really. Of course, this is brain surgery, albeit without any cutting. One must take care; the brain is the most delicate of creations.”

“I understand,” said Hades.

Chandragupta looked out at the moon’s surface again. “What was it Aldrin said?” he asked—whoever Aldrin might be. “ ‘Magnificent desolation.’ ” He shook his head. “Exactly so. Exactly so.” He slowly turned away from the window, and his voice was sad. “But I suppose we must be getting to work, no? The cure will take many hours. Will you come with me to the operating theater?”

The cure . I felt my heart pounding.

Karen was down in her office answering her fan email—she got dozens of messages each day from people who loved her books, and although she had a little program that composed a rough answer to each message, she always went over the responses and often personally modified them.