Robert Sawyer - Mindscan

I was in the living room, watching a baseball game on Karen’s wall screen—the Blue Jays at Yankee Stadium. But when the game ended—the Jays really have to do something about their relief pitching—I turned off the wall, and found myself just staring into space, and—

What do you mean I can’t go home?

The voice was soundless, but completely clear.

You said after some initial testing, I could go home.

“Jake?” I spoke my name aloud in a way I don’t think I ever had before.

Who’s that?

“Jake?” I said again.

Yes? Who is this?

The reply had been immediate; no time lag. Still: “Are you on the moon?”

The moon? No, of course not. That’s where the biological original is.

“Then where are you? Who are you?”

I’m—

But just then Karen entered the room, and the strange voice-that-was-not-a-voice was gone. “Oh, honey, you have to hear this one,” she said, holding an email printout. “It’s from an eight-year-old girl in Venezuela. She says…”

I awoke in the recovery room at High Eden, harsh fluorescent lights glaring into my eyes—but at least I wasn’t looking down on them from above…

My head hurt something fierce and I needed to pee, but I was definitely alive. I thought bitterly for a moment about the other me, down on Earth, in the real world—the one whose head probably never hurt, and who certainly never had to urinate.

I could see Dr. Chandragupta and a female doctor whose name was Ng across the room, talking. Chandragupta seemed to be telling a joke; I couldn’t quite make out the words, but Ng had the this-better-be-good look of someone who was enduring a long setup before the punch line. I supposed that was a positive sign: a surgeon who had just finished an unsuccessful operation wouldn’t be in a jocular mood. I waited until Chandragupta was finished. The payoff was apparently sufficient: Ng laughed out loud, swatted Chandragupta on the forearm, and declared, “That’s a wful! ”

Chandragupta smiled broadly, apparently delighted at his own wit. I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry; nothing came out. I forced a sandpapery swallow and tried again. “I—”

Ng looked my way first, then Chandragupta did the same thing. They crossed the room, loomed over me.

“Well, hello,” said Chandragupta, smiling, his dark eyes crinkling as he did so. “How do you feel?”

“Thirsty.”

“Of course.” Chandragupta looked around for a faucet, but it was Ng’s hospital: she knew where it was. She quickly got me a plastic cup full of cold water. I forced my head up from the pillow—it didn’t weigh much, but jackhammers were pounding at my temples. I took a sip, then another. “Thank you,” I said to her, then looked at Chandragupta. “Well?”

“Yes. And you?”

“No, no. I mean, how did it go?”

“Very well, mostly. There was a bit of trouble—the nidus was most convoluted; isolating it, and only it, was tricky. But, in the end— success .”

I felt flush. “So I’m cured?”

“Oh, yes, indeed.”

“No chance of a cascade of ruptured blood vessels?”

He smiled. “No more than anyone else has—so, watch your cholesterol.”

I felt not just lunar-gravity light; I felt weightless. “I’ll do that,” I said.

“Good. Your doppel—”

He stopped himself. He’d been about to say that my doppelganger didn’t have to worry about any such things, but I did.

My doppelganger. That other me. Living my life. I’d have to—

“Code Blue! Emergency!” A female voice came blaring over the wall speaker.

“What the—?” I said. Ng was already racing away.

“Code Blue! Emergency!”

Dr. Chandragupta practically hit his head on the ceiling as he bounded out the door.

“Doc, what’s up?” I called after him. “What’s happening?”

“Code Blue! Emergency!”

“Doc!”

I’d expected a bestselling writer to spend all her day dictating to her computer.

Instead, it seemed Karen spent most of her time on the phone, talking to her literary agent in New York; her film agent in Hollywood; her American editor, also in New York; and her British editor in London.

There was a lot to talk about: Karen was bringing them all up to speed on her new status as a Mindscan. I couldn’t help overhearing some of it; I really wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but these new ears were just so darned good . Everyone she spoke to seemed excited, not only because Karen was thinking about writing a new novel—she hadn’t felt so energetic in years, she said—but also because they all seemed to think there’d be enormous publicity if she did; Karen was the first-ever novelist to transfer her consciousness.

I wandered around Karen’s house; the thing was huge. She’d given me a quick tour the first day, but it had all been so much to absorb. Still, she’d told me to feel free to poke around, and so I did, looking at the paintings on the walls (all originals, of course), and the thousands of printed books, and her awards cases—yes, plural.

Trophies, certificates, medallions, some great phallic thing called a Hugo, something else called the Newbery, dozens more, and—

…not sure this is what…

I stopped dead in my tracks, strained to listen.

…could be a mistake…

There was a faint whir from the house’s air conditioning, and an even fainter whir from some mechanism or other inside my body, but, still, just at the threshold of perception, there were also words.

…if you see what I mean…

“Hello?” I said, feeling funny speaking aloud when there was no one around. “Hello?”

What the—? Who’s that?

“It’s me. It’s Jake Sullivan.”

I’m Jake Sullivan.

“Apparently. And you’re not the biological original, are you?”

What? No, no. He’s off on the moon.

“But there’s only supposed to be one of us—one upload.”

That’s right. So who the hell are you?

“Umm, I’m the legal copy.”

Yeah? How do you know I’m not?

“Well, where are you?”

Toronto—I think. At least, I don’t remember being taken anywhere.

“But where exactly are you?”

Well, I guess it’s the Immortex facility. But I’ve never seen this room before.

“What does it look like?”

Blue walls—hey, by the way, I’m no longer color-blind. What about you?

“Same thing.”

Amazing, isn’t it?

“What else is in the room?”

Table. A bed, like in a doctor’s office. A diagram of a brain on one wall.

“Any windows? Can you see outside?”

No. Just a door.

“Are you free to come and go as you please?”

I—I don’t know.

“Well, where did you spend last night?”

I don’t remember. Here, I suppose…

“How are you instantiated? In a synthetic body?”

Yes—precisely the one I ordered.

“So am I. Is there anyone else around? Any other Mindscans?”

Not that I can see. What about you? Where are you?

“In Detroit.”

What the hell are you doing there?

“Doesn’t matter.” Funny; I don’t know why I demurred—especially from myself. “But I’ve been to our house in Toronto.”

So you are the official, recognized instantiation, then?

“Yes.”

And I’m some—some bootleg copy…

“So it seems.”

But why?

“I have no idea. But it isn’t right. There’s only supposed to be one instantiation.”