Nothing, then: Well, I can't argue with the fact that I am here, in some sort of a synthetic body. But * but you said it's September.

"That's right."

It isn't. It's late November.

"If that's true, the leaves should all be off the trees * assuming you're still in or near Toronto. Have you seen outside today?"

Not today, no. But yesterday, and*

"What you think of as yesterday doesn't count."

There are no windows in this room.

"Blue, right? The color of the room."

Yes.

"There's a poster of the brain's structure on one wall, isn't there? I asked you to make a rip in it ten centimeters up from the lower-left corner."

No, you didn't.

"Yes, I did. Last time we communicated. Go look: you'll see it. A one-centimeter rip."

It's there, yes, but that just means you've been in this room before.

"No, it doesn't. But it, plus those three X's on your forearm, do mean that you are the same instantiation I've contacted before."

This is the first time we've ever communicated.

"It isn't * although I understand you think it is."

I'd remember if we 'd spoken before.

"So you'd think. But, gee, well, I don't know * it's as though your ability to form new long-term memories is gone. You can't remember anything new."

And I've been like this for eleven years now?

"No. That's the strange thing. The biological Jacob Sullivan only underwent the Mindscan process last month. You couldn't have been created any earlier than that."

I'm still not sure I buy all this bull * but, for the sake of argument, say it's true. I could see something going wrong with the * the "uploading," as you call it * preventing me from forming new long-term memories. But why would I lose a decade worth of old memories?

"I have no idea."

It really is 2045?

"Yes."

A long pause. How are the Blue Jays doing?

"They're in the toilet."

Well, at least I haven't missed mucha St. Martin's Press came through, offering an advance against royalties of $110 million for the next Karen Bessarian book. Meanwhile, Immortex agreed to pay for half the litigation costs, and to provide whatever other support they could.

Karen spent $600,000 to buy the earliest possible trial slot at auction. The whole thing struck me as obscene, but I guess that was just my Canadian perspective. In the States, you could jump the queue for health care if you had enough money; why shouldn't you be able to do that for justice, too? Anyway, as Deshawn explained, because Karen bought the trial slot, the case was framed as her suing Tyler.

Deshawn Draper and Maria Lopez spent a couple of days picking jurors. Of course, Deshawn wanted fans of Karen's work * either the original books, or the movies based on them. And he wanted to stack the jury with blacks, Hispanics, and gays, whom he * and the consultant we'd hired * felt might be more predisposed to a broader definition of personhood.

Deshawn also wanted rich jurors * the hardest kind to get, because the rich tended to find excuses to shirk their civic responsibility. "Death and taxes are supposed to be unavoidable," Deshawn had said to us. "But the poor know that the rich have ways to avoid paying their fair share to the IRS. Still, they get some comfort from the fact that death is the great leveler * or it was, until Immortex. They're going to resent Karen finding a way around that. Meanwhile, the rich are always paranoid about greedy relatives; wealthy people are going to despise Tyler."

I watched, fascinated * and slightly appalled * during voir dire, but soon enough the seven-person jury was impaneled: six active jurors plus one alternate. What Deshawn and Lopez each wanted mostly canceled out, and we ended up with four straight women, two of whom were black and two of whom were white; one gay black man; one straight white man; and one straight Hispanic man. All were under sixty; Lopez had managed to banish anyone who might possibly be too preoccupied with questions of their own mortality. None were rich, although two * apparently a high number for a jury trial * were certainly upper middle class. And only one, the Hispanic man, had ever read one of Karen's books * ironically, Return to DinoWorld, which was a sequel * and he claimed to be indifferent to it.

Finally, we were ready to go. The courtroom was simple and modern, with red-stained wooden paneling on the walls. At the bailiff's command, we did that all-rise thing you see on TV. As it turned out, the judge assigned to this case was the same Sebastian Herrington who had heard the initial motions. He entered and took a seat behind the long bench, its wood stained the same red as the walls. Behind the bench and to one side was the Michigan flag, and the American flag was on the other. Next to the bench was the witness stand.

Deshawn and Karen sat at the plaintiff's table, which was near the jury box. Tyler and Ms. Lopez were at an identical table, further along. In front of these two tables was a wide, open area covered with yellow tiles; this area, Malcolm told me, was referred to as the well.

I had no special status in this matter, so my seat was in the spectator's gallery, which, unlike most courtrooms I'd seen on TV, was off to one side, letting us see the faces of the plaintiff and the defendant, as well as those of the judge and witness.

Malcolm Draper sat next to me. Also in the gallery were Tyler's two daughters, ages twelve and eight, accompanied by Tyler's rather prim wife. The children looked totally adorable; their presence was clearly designed to make the jury think us heartless at depriving them of their rightful inheritance.

Of course, the trial was being broadcast, and the rest of the seating area was packed, mostly with reporters. Also present were a bunch of people from Immortex, who had come here from Toronto.

"We'll hear opening statements," said Judge Herrington, a hand supporting his shoehorn chin, "beginning with the plaintiff. Mr. Draper?"

Deshawn rose. He was wearing a dark blue suit today, a light blue shirt, and a tie that was a shade in between the two. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he said, "the Bible makes it plain: honor thy father and thy mother. That's not a suggestion; it's one of the Ten Commandments. Well, we're here today because a man * a greedy man * has chosen to break that Commandment." He moved behind Karen, and put his hands on her shoulders. "I'd like you to meet that man's mother. This is Karen Bessarian, the famous writer. She's worked very hard over the years, creating some of the most memorable characters in modern literature. She's made a lot of money doing that * and well she should have. After all, that is the American Dream, isn't it?

Work hard, and you'll get ahead. But now her son * that's him, over there: one Tyler Horowitz * has chosen to dishonor his mother in the most extreme, the most severe, the most outrageous way. He says she's dead. And he wants her money.

"You'll come to know Karen Bessarian during this trial. She is loving, warm, generous, and kind. She's not asking you to award her any monetary or punitive damages. All she wants is to stop her son from further attempts to execute her will, until if and when she actually does die." Deshawn looked at each of the jurors in turn, making eye contact. "Is that to much for a mother to ask?" He sat down, and patted Karen's hand.

Herrington nodded his shoehorn face. "Thank you, Mr. Draper. Your opening statement, Ms. Lopez?"

Maria Lopez rose. She had on a jacket that was a deep shade of red I'd never seen before * it was astonishing to still be encountering new colors. Her pants were black, and her blouse was dark gray. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case isn't about greed." She shook her head, and smiled sadly. "It isn't about money. It's about a son laying his beloved mother to rest, about mourning, about getting on with things that need to be done." She paused, and took her turn at the eye-contact-with-each-juror-in-turn thing. "Wrapping up the affairs of a deceased parent is one of the saddest duties a child ever has to perform. It's heart-wrenching, but it must be done. The attempts by third parties to prolong poor Tyler's agony are cruel. Karen Bessarian is dead, and we'll prove it. She died on the surface of the moon. As for the a machine a sitting there that is claiming to be Ms. Bessarian, we shall show that it is an impostor, a thing falsely trying to claim money that it has no right to. Let Tyler bury his mother.

"I agree with the plaintiff's attorney on one point. The real Karen Bessarian was a generous woman. She provided for over ten billion dollars in charitable bequests in her will * to charities including the American Cancer Society, the Humane Society of the United States, and Doctors Without Borders. An enormous amount of good work can be done with that money. No one is sadder that Ms. Bessarian has passed on than her devoted, loving son, Tyler. But he's anxious to see his mother's fortune help other people * precisely as she intended before she died. Let's not stand in the way of a great woman's last wish. Thank you."

"Very well," said Judge Herrington. "Mr. Draper, you may now present the plaintiff's case."

22.

Entering High Eden's American-style restaurant, I spotted Malcolm Draper sitting alone, reading something on a datapad. I did that lunar walk/hop thing over to where he was. "Hey, Malcolm."

He looked up. "Jake! Have a seat."

I pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down. "Whatcha reading?"

He held up the datapad so I could see its display. " DinoWorld." He shrugged a bit.

"My son really liked it, but I never gave it a try. I must say, it's charming."

I shook my head. "Isn't it always the way? Nothing boosts an author's sales like dying."

He pressed the datapad's OFF button. "Except, of course, that Karen Bessarian isn't really dead," he said. "The Mindscan Karen will get the royalty."

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, buta 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. Anda"

"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?"