Mindscan (18 page)

"And did Tyler ask you to do anything?"

"Yes. He requested I issue a death certificate."

"Why?"

"He said he knew that the doctors on the moon wouldn't issue one. He said he wanted to wrap up his mother's affairs."

"And so you agreed?"

"Yes." Hand back on beard again. "It's a duty I've performed before. I had the requisite electronic form stored locally. I filled out a copy, and emailed it to Mr. Horowitz, along with my digital signature."

"Again, how confident are you that the dead woman was Karen Bessarian?"

"One hundred percent."

"And how confident are you that she was, in fact, dead?"

"Also one hundred percent. I saw her stop breathing. I saw her EKG go flat. I saw her EEG go flat. I observed personally that her pupils had exploded."

"Exploded?"

"Dilated to the maximal extent, leaving only the thinnest ring of his visible around them. It is a sure sign of brain death."

Lopez smiled ever so slightly. "Thank you, Dr. Chandragupta. Oh, one more question — your fee. Mr. Draper made much of how much your were paid for this service. Would you care to comment on that?"

"Yes, I would. The fee was Mr. Horowitz's idea; he said I deserved it. Called it 'Good Samaritan' money — his way of saying thank you."

"Did he offer the large fee before or after you agreed to provide a death certificate?"

"After. It was after, of course."

"Thank you," said Lopez. "No further questions."

Deshawn was on his feet. "Redirect, your honor?"

Herrington nodded.

"Dr. Chandragupta," Deshawn said, "what's the normal fee in Maryland for issuing a death certificate?"

"I'd have to look that up."

"Just a ballpark figure, sir. Round it up to the nearest thousand."

"Urn, well, rounded up to the nearest thousand, it would be one."

"One thousand dollars, correct?"

"That is right."

"In fact, are there any forms that doctors in Maryland normally charge more than a thousand dollars to issue?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Now," said Deshawn, "are you certain that your discussion with the defendant about a hundred-and-twenty-five-thousand-dollar fee for issuing a death certificate took place
after
you'd agreed to in fact issue one?"

"Yes." Chandragupta glared defiantly at Deshawn. "That's how I remember it."

I'd thought it strange that Deshawn Draper had started by calling Chandragupta, since the doctor seemed totally on Tyler's side. But I soon saw why: once Chandragupta's testimony was over, Deshawn immediately called for summary judgment, based on the invalidity of the death certificate. Judge Herrington dismissed the jury while motions and countermotions were argued. Deshawn wanted the death certificate thrown out because it was issued by Chandragupta outside the geographic jurisdiction in which he was licensed to practice medicine, and because of the possibility that he'd been bribed to issue it.

Lopez countered with old maritime statutes from Maryland, where Chandragupta w
as
licensed, that said that any doctor could issue a death certificate in international waters when it was impractical, impossible, or against the decedent's wishes to have the body brought to shore; that last allowed for navy personnel to be buried at sea if they died during duty. She also vehemently argued that innuendo did not equal established fact. A lot of minutiae of Michigan and Maryland law were debated, but ultimately Judge Herrington ruled that the death certificate was indeed valid for the narrow purpose of determining the death of the original, biological Karen Bessarian.

Deshawn and Lopez spent the morning arguing more motions; I'd had no idea how much time could be wasted on that. But finally, after lunch, we got down to the main show.

"Please state your name for the record," said the clerk.

Karen was wearing a simple, inexpensive beige suit. "Karen Cynthia Bessarian," she said.

"Be seated."

Karen sat down, and Deshawn got up — almost exactly like a seesaw.

"Hello, Karen," said Deshawn, smiling warmly. "How are you feeling today?"

"Fine, thank you."

"I'm glad," said Deshawn. "I suppose health concerns aren't a major issue for you anymore, are they?"

"No, thank God."

"You sound relieved. Have you had health problems in the past?"

"No more than anyone my age, I suppose," said Karen. "But they're no fun to go through."

"I'm sure, I'm sure," said Deshawn. "I don't want to pry, but might you share a few of them with us?"

"Oh, the usual litany — everything from tonsillitis to a hip replacement." Karen paused. "I suppose the worst thing was my bout with breast cancer."

"My God, that's awful," said Deshawn. "How were you treated?"

"Initially with radiation therapy and drugs. The tumor was destroyed, but, of course, I was still at risk of future tumors. Thankfully, I don't have to worry about that anymore."

"Because you've uploaded into this durable body?"

"No, no. Because I had genetic therapy. I had two of the key genes that predispose a woman to breast cancer. About twenty years ago, I had gene therapy to eliminate those genes from my body. That cut my likelihood of ever having another breast tumor to a very low level."

"I see, I see. Well, I'm delighted to hear that. But let's move on. Karen, have you been outside the U.S. since you became a Mindscan?"

"Yes."

"Where have you been?"

"Canada. Toronto."

"And that means you've crossed over the U.S.-Canada border since uploading, no?"

"Yes, by train going into Canada, and by car going back."

"And have you taken any flights recently?"

"Yes."

"Where from?"

"Toronto's Lester B. Pearson International Airport, to Atlanta, Georgia."

"Why?"

"To attend a funeral."

"Not your own, I hope!" A few jurors laughed.

"No. In fact, the funeral of my first husband, Daron Bessarian."

"Oh, my God," said Deshawn, with appropriate theatricality. "I'm so very sorry to hear that. Still, when crossing the border between — what, Windsor and Detroit? — you had to speak with customs officials, correct?"

"Yes."

"And when you flew from Toronto to Atlanta, you also had to deal with customs officials, correct?"

"Yes."

"So, in fact, you've dealt with both United States Customs and Canadian Customs, correct?"

"Yes."

"In these dealings, were you asked to provide identification?"

"Naturally."

"What ID did you present?"

"My United States passport, and my U.S. Homeland Security personal-identity card."

"And do you have both of these documents in your possession?"

"Yes, I do."

"May the court see them?"

"Of course."

Karen had a small purse with her. She removed the passport, and the smaller personal-identity card.

"I'd like to enter these as exhibits," said Deshawn, "and have the court note that they were indeed in the possession of the plaintiff."

"Ms. Lopez?"

"Your honor, just because she has physical possession—"

Herrington shook his long head. "Ms. Lopez, don't argue your case. Do you have an objection to the exhibits being entered?"

"No, your honor."

"Very well," said Judge Herrington. "Continue, Mr. Draper."

"Thank you, your honor. So, Karen, as you've just demonstrated, you possess the identification papers of Karen Bessarian, correct?"

"Of course," Karen said. "I am her."

"Well, you've certainly got Karen's ID documents, but let's see if it goes further than that." Deshawn took an object off his desk and held it up. It was about the size of a deck of playing cards; parts had a shiny silver finish and the rest were matte black.

"Do you know what this is?"

"A transaction terminal," said Karen.

"Exactly," said Deshawn. "Just a common, garden-variety wireless transaction terminal. The kind you encounter in stores and restaurants — anywhere you might want to access the funds in your bank account and transfer some amount to someone else, correct?"

"That's what it appears to be, yes," said Karen.

"Now, please let me assure you that this isn't a mockup; it's a real, working unit, hooked into the global financial network."

"All right."

Deshawn pulled a golden disk out of his pocket. "What's this, Karen?"

"A Reagan."

"By which you mean a ten-dollar United States coin, correct? With the American eagle on one side and former president Ronald Reagan on the other, is that right?"

"Yes."

"All right. Now, do you have access to your bank accounts currently?"

Karen's tone was measured. "In his wisdom, until this matter is cleared up, Judge Herrington has put a cap on how much of my money I can take out. But, yes, I should be able to access my accounts."

"Very good," said Deshawn. "Here's what I'd like to do, then. I'd like to give you this ten-dollar coin — good for all debts, public and private. In exchange, I'd like you to transfer ten dollars from your principal bank account into mine. Would you be willing to do that?"

Karen smiled. "By all means."

Deshawn looked to the judge, who nodded. He then crossed the well and gave Karen the coin. "Don't spend it all in one place," he said, and a couple of jurors chuckled; Deshawn was warm and witty, and slowly but surely I think he was indeed winning them over. "Now, if you please …?" He handed her the transaction terminal.

Karen placed her thumb against the little scanning plate, and one of the green lights came on. She then held the device up to her right eye, and the other green light came on.

"Wait!" said Deshawn. "Before you go any further, will you read to the court what the transfer terminal's display is currently saying?"

"With pleasure," said Karen. "It says, 'Identity confirmed: Bessarian, Karen C.' "

Deshawn took the device from her and walked over to the jury box, showing the display to each juror in turn. The implication was clear: the device had recognized Karen's fingerprints and her retinal scans.

"So at the border stations, you proved your identity on the basis of what you had — specifically, on the basis of documents in your possession, correct?"

"That's right."

"And the transaction terminal has identified you based on who you are — that is, based on your biometric data, correct?"

"That's my understanding, yes."

"All right." Deshawn fished into his jacket pocket, and pulled out his ident. "This is the account I'd like you to transfer ten dollars to," he said, proffering the card.

Karen took the card and held it near the device's scanner. Another LED came on.

Karen tapped out something on the keypad, and—

"Wait!" said Deshawn. "What did you just do?"

"I entered my PIN," said Karen.

"Your personal identification number?"

"Yes."

"And did the terminal accept it?"

Karen held up the unit. The green LED was surely obvious, even in the jury box.

"Who else beside you knows this PIN?"

"No one."

"Do you have it written down anywhere?"

"No. The bank says you aren't supposed to do that."

Deshawn nodded. "You are wise. So this terminal has now recognized you not only based on your biometrics, but also on information you possess that only Karen Bessarian could possibly know, correct?"

"That's exactly right," said Karen.

Deshawn nodded. "Now, if you'll just finish the transaction — I don't want to lose my ten bucks…"

The jury enjoyed this comment, and Karen tapped several keys. "Transaction completed," she said, and held up the terminal, which was showing the appropriate pattern of illuminated LEDs.

It was a simple, elegant demonstration, and it looked to me like at least some of the jurors were impressed by it. "Thank you," said Deshawn. "Your witness, Ms. Lopez."

"Not right now," said Herrington. "We'll pick this up in the morning."

That night, about 3:00 a.m, I told Karen about the strange interaction I was apparently having with other instantiations of me. We were walking around outside, on the manicured grounds of her mansion. Insects buzzed, and bats wheeled overhead. The moon was a high crescent sneering down at us; somewhere on its backside, of course, was the only other me that was
supposed
to exist — the biological original.

"As I'm sure you know," I said, "there's a phenomenon in quantum physics called 'entanglement.' It allows quantum particles to be connected instantaneously across any distance; measuring one affects the other, and vice versa."

Karen nodded. "Uh-huh."

"And, well, there've been theories that consciousness is quantum-mechanical in nature for ages — most famously, I suppose, in the work of Roger Penrose, who proposed just that back in the 1980s."

"Yes," said Karen, amiably. "So?"

"So, I think — don't ask me exactly how; I'm not sure quite what the mechanism is — but I think Immortex has made multiple copies of my mind, and that somehow, from time to time, I connect with them. I'm assuming it's quantum entanglement, but I suppose it could be something else. But, anyway, I hear them, as voices in my head."

"Like … like telepathy?"

"'Umm, I hate that word — it's got weird-ass psychic connotations. Besides, I'm not hearing
other people's
thoughts; I'm hearing my own … sort of."

"Forgive me, Jake, but it seems more likely that there's just something not quite functioning right in your new brain. I'm sure if you told Dr. Porter about it, he'd—"

"No!" I said. "No. Immortex is doing something
wrong
. I — I can feel it."

"Jake…"

"It's inherent in the Mindscan technology: the ability to make as many copies as you want of the source mind."

Karen and I were holding hands. It didn't provide quite the same intimate sensation it had when I'd been flesh and blood, but, then again, at least my palms weren't sweating. "But
why
would they do that?" she said. "What possible purpose could it serve?"

"Steal corporate secrets. Steal personal security codes. Blackmail me."

"Over what? What have you done?"

"Well … nothing that I'm ashamed of."

Karen's tone was teasing. "Really?"

I didn't want to be sidetracked, but I found myself considering her question for a moment. "Yes, really; there's nothing in my past I'd pay any sizable amount of money to have kept secret. But that's not the point. They could be on a fishing expedition. See what they turn up."

"Like the formula for Old Sully's Premium Dark?"

"Karen, be serious. Something is going on."

"Oh, I'm sure there is," she said. "But, you know, I hear voices in my head all the time — my characters' voices. It's a fact of life, being a writer. Could what you're experiencing be something like that?"

"I'm not a writer, Karen."

"Well, all right then. Okay. But did you ever read Julian Jaynes?"

I shook my head.

"Oh, I loved him in college!
The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind
— amazing book. And what a title! My editor would never let me get away with anything like that. Anyway, Jaynes said the two hemispheres are basically two separate intelligences, and that the voices of angels and demons people claimed to hear in ancient times were really coming from the other side of their own heads."

She looked at me. "Maybe the integration of your new brain isn't working quite right.

Get Dr. Porter to tweak a few things, and I'm sure it'll go away."

"No, no," I said. "It's
real
."

"Can you do it now? Connect with another you?"

"I can't do it on demand. And it only happens sometimes."

"Jake…" Karen said gently, leaving my name hanging in the night air.

"No, really," I said. "It really does happen."

Her tone was infinitely gentle. "Jake, have you ever heard of assisted writing? Or Ouija boards? Or false-memory syndrome? The human mind can convince itself that all sorts of things have external reality, or are coming from somewhere else, when it's really doing them itself."

"That's not what's happening here."

"Isn't it? Have these — these
voices
said anything to you that you didn't already know? Anything that you couldn't already know, but that we could check on to see if it's true?"

"Well, no, of course not. The other instantiations are being held in isolation somewhere."

"Why would that be? And why aren't I detecting anything similar?"

I shrugged my shoulders a bit. "I don't know."

"You should ask Dr. Porter about it."

"No," I said. "And don't you speak to him about it either — not until I've figured out what's going on."

At 10:00 a.m. the next morning, Maria Lopez faced Karen, who had returned to the witness stand.

"Good morning, Ms. Bessarian."

"Good morning," said Karen.

"Did you have a pleasant — a pleasant
interregnum
since our last session in court?" asked Lopez.

"Yes."

"What, may I ask, did you do?"

Deshawn spoke up. "Objection, your honor! Relevance."

"A little latitude your honor," said Lopez.

"Very well," said Herrington. "Ms. Bessarian, you'll answer the question."

"Well, let's see. I read, I watched a movie, I wrote part of a new novel, I surfed the Web. I went for a nice walk."

"Very good. Very good. Anything else?"

"All sorts of insignificant things. I'm really not sure what you're driving at, Ms. Lopez."

"Well, then, let me ask you directly: did you sleep?"

"No."

"You didn't sleep. So, it's safe to say, you didn't dream, either, isn't that right?"

"Obviously."

"
Why
didn't you sleep?"

"My artificial body doesn't require it."

"But
could
you sleep, if you wanted to?"

"I — I'm not sure why one would desire sleeping if it wasn't necessary."

"You're begging the question. Can you go to sleep?"

Karen was quiet for a few moments, then: "No. Apparently not."

"You haven't slept at all since you were reinstantiated in this form, correct?"

"That is correct, yes."

"And, therefore, you haven't dreamed, right?"

"I have not."

Deshawn was on his feet. "Your honor, this is hardly proper cross."

"Sorry," said Lopez. "Just a few pleasantries to start the day." She picked up a large paper book from her table and rose to her feet. "We've been discussing your physical parameters, Ms. Bessarian. Let's start with a simple one. Your age."

"I'm eighty-five."

"And your date of birth?"

"May twenty-ninth, 1960."

"And how were you born?"

"I — I beg your pardon?"

"Was it a normal birth? A cesarean section? Or some other procedure?"

"A normal birth, at least by the standards of the time. My mother was given heavy anesthetic, labor was induced, and my father wasn't allowed in the delivery room."

Karen looked directly at the jury box, wanting to score a point right off the bat.

"We've come a long way since then."

"A normal birth," said Lopez. "Through the dilated birth canal, out into the light of day, a gentle slap on the bottom — I imagine that was still in vogue back then."

"Yes, I believe so."

"A first cry."

"Yes."

"And, of course, a severing of the umbilical cord."

"That's right."

"The umbilical cord, through which nutrients had been passed from your mother into the developing embryo, correct?"

"Yes."

"A cord whose removal leaves a scar, something we call the navel, no?"

"That's correct."

"And those scars come in two forms — commonly called innies and outies, isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"And which kind do you have, Ms. Bessarian?"

"Objection!" said Deshawn. "Relevance!"

"Mr. Draper raised the question of biometrics," said Lopez, spreading her arms.

"Surely I'm allowed to explore all her biometrics, not just the ones that Mr. Draper can do parlor tricks with."

The judge's shoehorn face bobbed up and down. "Overruled."

"Ms. Bessarian," said Lopez, "which is it — and innie or an outie?"

"An innie."

"May we see it?"

"No."

"And why not?"

Karen held her head up high. "Because it would be pointless, and — as I'm sure the judge would agree — hardly befitting the dignity of this court. You're hoping I have no belly button at all, so that you can make some facile point. But, of course I do; my body is anatomically correct. And so, with my belly exposed, you'd fall back on trying to make some lesser point about how my navel isn't really made of scar tissue but rather is just a sculpted indentation. Let me save you the bother: I concede that indeed it is sculpted. But given that navels don't do anything, that's hardly significant.

Mine is as good as anyone else's." She looked directly at the jury box again, and smiled a winning smile. "It even collects lint."

The jurors, and even the judge, laughed. "Move along," said Herrington.

"Very well," said Lopez, sounding somewhat chastened. "Your honor, may I introduce the defendant's first exhibit, a hardcopy of the operating manual for the transaction terminal Mr. Draper introduced earlier?"

"Mr. Draper?" asked Judge Herrington.

"No objection."

"The exhibit is admitted," said the judge.

"Thank you," said Lopez. She crossed the well, approached the witness stand, and handed the manual to Karen. "As you can see, I've bookmarked a certain page.

Would you open the manual to that page?'

Karen did so.

"And will you read the highlighted passage?" asked Lopez.

Karen cleared her throat — a mechanically unnecessary bit of theater, then: " 'This scanner uses biometric data to ensure the security of transactions. Both a fingerprint scan and a retinal scan are performed to verify the identity of the user. No two human beings have identical fingerprints, nor do any two individuals share the same retinal patterns. By measuring physical characteristics of both, the security of the transaction is assured.' So you see—"

"Sounds impressive, doesn't it?" said Lopez.

"Yes. And the point is that the terminal
did
—"

"Forgive me, Ms. Bessarian, you can only reply to the questions I pose." Lopez paused. "No, I'm sorry, I don't wish to be rude. You had a comment you wanted to add?"

"Well, just that the scanner
did
recognize me as Karen Bessarian."

"Yes, it did. In key biometric areas, you are apparently identical — or at least as close as is necessary — to the original Karen Bessarian."

"That's right."

"Now, if it pleases the court, I'd like to try something. Your honor, defendant's exhibits two, three, and four. Number two is an artificial hand, and number three is an artificial eyeball, both — as, number four, the certificate of provenance, attests — produced by Morrell Gimbel of Dusseldorf, a leading manufacturer of prosthetic body parts. Indeed, Morrell is the company Immortex employs to make many of the replacement components it uses."

There were about fifteen minutes of objections and arguments before the judge accepted the exhibits. Finally, we were back on track, and Lopez handed the artificial hand to Karen. "Would you please press the artificial hand's thumb against the terminal's scanning plate?"

Karen reluctantly did so. One green light went on — I used to hate using those things, because I could never tell if the light was green or red.

She then handed Karen the artificial eyeball. "And would you hold this up to the terminal's lens?"

Karen did that, too, and a second green LED came to life.

"Now, Ms. Bessarian, would you be so kind as to read to the court what the display says?" She held out the device.

Karen looked at it. "It…"

"Yes, Ms. Bessarian?"

"It says, 'Identity confirmed: Bessarian, Karen C.' "

"Thank you, Ms. Bessarian." She took the device out of Karen's limp hand and tapped some keys with slow deliberation. When she was done, she handed the device back to Karen. "Now, I'd like you to do for me what you did for Mr. Draper: transfer ten dollars into my own bank account. Of course, to do that, we'll need your PIN number."

Karen frowned. "It's just a PIN," she said.

Lopez looked momentarily confused. "Sorry?"

"PIN stands for 'Personal Identification Number.' Only people who work for the Department of Redundancy Department call it a PIN number."

Judge Herrington's little mouth smiled at this.

"Fine," said Lopez. "What we need now is your PIN, so that we can complete the transaction."

Karen folded her arms across her chest. "And I don't believe the court can make me divulge that."

"No, no, of course not. Privacy is important. May I?" Lopez held out her hand for the terminal, and Karen gave it to her. She stabbed out some numbers on the unit, then handed it back to Karen. "Would you read what it says?"

Karen's plastic face wasn't quite as pliable as one made out of flesh was, but I could see the consternation. "It says, 'PIN OK.' "

"Well, what do you know!" declared Lopez. "Without using your fingerprint, or your retinal pattern, or any knowledge known solely to you, we've managed to access your account, haven't we?"

Karen said nothing.

"Haven't we, Ms. Bessarian?"

"Apparently."

"Well, in that case, why don't we go ahead and transfer ten dollars into my account, just as you did for Mr. Draper?"

"I'd rather not," said Karen.

"What?" said Lopez. "Oh, I see. Yes, of course, you're right. That's totally unfair.

After all, Mr. Draper gave you ten dollars first. So, I suppose I should also give you a Reagan." She reached into her jacket pocket again, brought out her hand, and proffered a coin.

Karen crossed her arms in front of her chest, refusing to take it.

"Ah, well," said Lopez, peeling back the gold foil, revealing the embossed chocolate disk inside. She popped it in her mouth, and chewed. "This one's a fake, anyway."