Robert Sawyer - Mindscan

I snorted. “Like she deserves it.”

Malcolm had a glass of white wine already. He took a sip. “She does deserve it. You know that.”

I snorted again, and Malcolm shrugged amiably. He must have seen a server behind me, because he made a beckoning motion with his hand, his Tafford ring glinting in the light.

And, indeed, a moment later a waitress did appear: white, maybe twenty-five, curly hair, curvy everything else.

“ ’Evening, gentlemen,” she said. “What can I get for you?”

“A Caesar salad to start,” said Malcolm. “No croutons, please. Then a filet mignon wrapped in bacon, medium rare. Garlic mashed potatoes. Peas, carrots. Can do?”

“Of course, Mr. Draper. Whatever you wish. And what about you, Mr. Sullivan?”

I looked at her and blinked. How did she know my name? I mean, sure, she’d served me once or twice before, but…

It had been a long day, and I was getting a headache again—maybe it was because of all this dry air. Anyway, I didn’t want to peer at a menu, so I just said, “I’ll have the same thing, but bring me asparagus spears instead of peas and carrots, and I do want croutons.”

“Also medium rare for the filet?”

“Nah, a little less. Just past rare. And—Alberta beef.”

“Absolutely. To drink?”

I decided to be a pain. “Bring me an Old Sully’s Premium Dark.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll be—”

“You have that?” I said. “You have Old Sully’s?”

“Of course, sir. We stocked it just for you. We get full dossiers on everyone who is moving here.”

I nodded, and she went away.

“See?” said Malcolm, as if some point needed to be made. “This is a great place.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Well.” I looked around the room. I’d eaten here several times, but I’d never really examined the place. The decor, of course, was magnificent: dark paneling, like the best steakhouses—probably that whipped regolith stuff, though—white tablecloths, Tiffany-style lamps, the whole nine yards. “You really like it here?” I asked Malcolm.

“What’s not to like?”

“The lack of freedom. And…”

“What?”

I rubbed the top of my head. “Nothing. Go back to your book.”

He frowned. “You’re not yourself today, Jake.”

It was an innocent comment—unless he was in on it, too. I found myself speaking harshly. “I’m not myself every day,” I snapped. “That—that thing down on Earth is me. At least, that’s what they say.”

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “Jake, are you feeling okay?”

I took a deep breath, trying to rein it in. “Sorry. I’ve got a headache.”

“Again?”

I hadn’t recalled telling Malcolm about the last time I’d felt this pounding on the top of my skull. I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah, again.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“What do they know? You can’t trust them.”

He smiled. “Odd comment from a man whose life was recently saved by one.”

The waitress appeared with my beer, in a elaborate ceramic stein. She scurried away, I took a sip, and—

A stab of pain, like an ice pick to the head. Malcolm must have seen me wince.

“Jake? Jake, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “The beer’s very cold.”

The pain was dissipating. I took another sip.

“You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten,” said Malcolm.

I thought about that. I thought about food that had been prepared especially for me.

I thought about the easiest possible solution to Immortex’s problem of me wanting to go back to Earth. I felt another twinge, an aftershock from the pain of a moment ago. “Actually,” I said, rising, “I think I’ll pass on dinner. I’m going to go lie down.”

Malcolm’s face was a study in concern. But, after a moment, he made a show of rubbing his belly. “Well, lucky me. Two steaks!”

I forced a laugh, and headed for the door. But I knew he’d leave the one that came with asparagus untouched. Whatever else he was, Malcolm Draper was no fool.

“Please state and spell your name for the record,” said the clerk, a slim black male with a pencil-thin mustache.

A man with skin darker than mine but lighter than the clerk’s was facing him, one hand on a bound copy of one of the several holy books available for this purpose.

“First name: Pandit, P-A-N-D-I-T. Second name: Chandragupta, C-H-A-N-D-R-A-G-U-P-T-A.”

“Be seated,” said the clerk.

Chandragupta sat down just as Deshawn stood up. “Dr. Chandragupta,” Deshawn said. “You issued the death certificate in this case, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Are you Karen Bessarian’s personal physician?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been?”

“No.”

“Did you ever treat her for any malady, condition, or disease?”

“No.”

“Do you know if she has a personal physician?”

“Yes. That is, I know who was treating her before she died.”

“And who is that?”

“His name is Donald Kohl.”

“And is Dr. Kohl a colleague of yours?”

“No.”

“Where do you work, Dr. Chandragupta?”

“The Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore.”

“And is that where you claim Karen died?”

“No.”

“Where are you licensed to practice medicine?”

“In Maryland. Also in Connecticut.”

“Did Karen die in Maryland?”

“No.”

“Did Karen die in Connecticut?”

“No.”

“Are you a licensed medical examiner?”

“No, I’m—”

“Just answer the questions as put to you, Doctor,” said Deshawn, firmly but politely.

“Are you a licensed medical examiner?”

“No.”

“Are you a state or county coroner?”

“No.”

“And yet you issued a death certificate in this case, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you issue this death certificate—not where you claim Karen died, but where did you generate the paperwork?”

“In Baltimore.”

“Did you do this of your own volition?”

“Yes.”

“Really, Dr. Chandragupta, let’s try that question again: did you issue the so-called death certificate of your own volition, or did you do it upon someone’s request?”

“Well, if you put it like that … the latter. At someone’s request.”

“Whose?”

“Tyler Horowitz’s.”

“The defendant in this case?”

“Yes.”

“He asked you to issue a death certificate?”

“Yes.”

“Did he initiate contact with you, or did you initiate contact with him?”

“I contacted him first,” said Chandragupta.

“Were you aware that Tyler stood to inherit tens of billions of dollars when you contacted him?”

“Not as an absolute fact, no.”

“But you suspected it?”

“It seemed logical, yes.”

“Did you charge him anything to issue that certificate?”

“Naturally there is a fee for such a service.”

“Naturally,” said Deshawn, his voice dripping venom. He looked meaningfully at the jury box. The jurors looked back, but I couldn’t tell what they were thinking.

“Mr. Draper, please,” said Chandragupta, spreading his arms. “I know Canada is just across the river from here, and that we have some Canadians in the courtroom.

But, honestly, there is nothing immoral or unusual about a doctor making money for services rendered.”

“No,” said Deshawn. “I’m sure there isn’t.” He walked over to the jury box, and stood beside it, as if he had somehow become an eighth juror. “Tell us, though, exactly what fee you charged.”

“I admit that Mr. Horowitz was most generous, but—”

“The dollar amount, if you please.”