Mindscan

8

When I was a kid, I never thought Toronto would have a spaceport. But now almost every city did, at least potentially. Spaceplanes could take off and land on any runway big enough to accommodate a jumbo jet.

Commercial spaceflight was funny from a jurisdictional point of view. The spaceplane we were about to board would take off from Toronto and land again in Toronto; it would never visit any other country, although it would fly above lots of them at an altitude of up to 300 kilometers. Still, since it was technically a domestic flight, and since our ultimate destination, aboard a different vehicle, was the moon, which had no government, we didn’t require passports. That was just as well, because we’d left them behind for our … “replacements” I supposed was a good-enough word.

The Jetway was already connected by the time we arrived at the departure lounge.

Our spaceplane was one giant delta wing. Engines were mounted above the wing, instead of below it—to protect them in reentry, I guessed. The upper hull was painted white, and the underbelly was black. The North American Airlines logo appeared in several places, and the plane itself had a name marked in a script typeface near the leading point of the triangle: Icarus. I wondered what mythologically challenged suit had come up with that.

There were ten of us associated with Immortex making the flight today, plus another eighteen passengers who were going into orbit for other reasons—mostly tourism, judging by the snatches of conversation I overheard. Of the ten Immortex tickets, six were shed skins—a term I’d overheard, although I rather suspect I wasn’t supposed to—and four were staff replacements, going up to change places with people already at High Eden.

We boarded by row numbers, just like an airplane. I was in row eight, a window seat. The guy next to me turned out to be one of the staff replacements. He was about thirty, with that sort of freckly face that I’m told usually went with red hair, although I couldn’t be sure what color his was.

My chair was one of the special seats Sugiyama had talked about during his sales pitch: it was covered with ergonomically sculpted padding filled with some sort of shock-absorbing gel. I wanted to protest that I didn’t need a special seat—my bones were hardly brittle—but the flight was full, so there’d have been no point.

I’d gathered that safety briefings on airplanes were usually perfunctory, but we had to spend an hour and forty-five minutes listening to and participating in safety demonstrations, particularly related to what to do once we became weightless. For instance, there were vomit receptacles with attached vacuum cleaners that we had to—had to, had to!—use if we got motion sickness; apparently it’s very easy to choke on your own puke in microgravity.

Finally, it was time for takeoff. The big plane pulled away from the Jetway and headed onto the runway. I could see shimmers in the air caused by heat. We rolled very, very quickly down the runway, and just before we reached its end, we shot up at quite a sharp angle. Suddenly, I was glad for the gel padding.

I looked out the window. We were flying east, which meant we had to go right by downtown Toronto. I took a last look at the CN Tower, the SkyDome, the aquarium, and the banking towers.

My home. The place I’d grown up in. The place my mother, and my father, still lived in.

The place…

My eyes stung a bit.

The place Rebecca Chong still lived in.

A place I’d never see again.

Already, the sky was starting to blacken.

I soon recognized the social difficulties of being in an artificial body. Biology gave excuses: I have to eat, I’m tired, I need to go to the bathroom. All of those disappeared, at least with these particular bodies. Indeed, I wondered if Immortex would ever add such things. After all, who ever really wanted to be tired? It was an inconvenience at best; dangerous at worst.

I’d always thought of myself as a basically honest guy. But it was now immediately obvious to me that I’d been a constant purveyor of little white lies. I’d relied on the subjectively plausible—perhaps I was tired—to get out of awkward or boring activities; when I’d been biologically instantiated, I’d had a repertoire of such phrases that would allow me to gracefully bail out of a social situation I didn’t want to be in. But now, none of them would ring true—especially not to another upload. I was humiliated by my inability to walk, and desperate to get away from this ancient, mothering woman in the thirty-year-old package, but was failing to come up with a polite out.

And we had to stay here for three days of tests: this was Tuesday, so we’d be here through Friday. We each had a small room—with, ironically, a bed, not that we’d need to use it. But I did very much want to retreat there, to just be the hell alone. I was still wearing the terry-cloth robe. I used my cane as we walked back down the corridor that had just defeated me.

Karen had tried giving me a helping hand, but I’d shrugged it off, and I found myself looking away from her, and at the wall nearest me, as we continued on. Karen was evidently looking in the same direction, since she commented on the view through the window we were passing. “Looks like rain,” she said. “I wonder if we’ll rust?”

At another time, I might have laughed at the joke, but I was too ashamed, and too pissed off at both myself and Immortex. Still, some response seemed to be in order.

“Let’s just hope it’s not an electrical storm,” I said. “I’m not wearing my surge protector.”

Karen laughed more than my comment deserved. We continued on. “Say, I wonder if we can swim,” she said.

“Why not?” I replied. “I’m sure we aren’t really prone to rust.”

“Oh, I know that,” she said. “I’m talking about buoyancy. Humans swim so well because we float. But these new bodies might sink.”

I looked over at her, impressed. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“It’s going to be an adventure,” she said, “finding out what our new capabilities and limitations are.”

I did somehow manage a grunt now; it was an odd mechanical sound.

“Don’t you like adventures?” asked Karen.

We continued moving down the corridor. “I … I don’t think I’ve ever had one.”

“Of course you have,” Karen said. ” Life is an adventure.”

I thought about all the things I’d done in rny youth—all the drugs I’d tried, the women I’d slept with, the one man I’d slept with, the wise investments and the foolish ones, the broken limbs and broken hearts. “I suppose,” I said.

The corridor widened out now into a lounge, with soft-drink, coffee, and snack vending machines. It must have been intended for staff, not uploads, but Karen indicated that we should go in. Maybe she was tired—

But no. Of course she wasn’t. Still, by the time I’d realized that, we’d already veered into the rest area. There were several vinyl-covered padded chairs, and a few small tables. Karen took one of the chairs, carefully smoothing her floral-print sun dress beneath her legs as she did so. She then motioned for me to take another chair. I used my cane to steady myself as I lowered my body, then held the cane in front of me once I’d sat down.

“So,” I said, feeling a need to fill the void, “what adventures have you had?”

She was silent for a moment, and I felt bad. I hadn’t meant to challenge her earlier remark, but I suppose there had indeed been a “put up or shut up” edge to my words. “Sorry,” I said.

“Oh, no,” Karen replied. “Not at all. It’s just that there are so many. I’ve been to Antarctica, and the Serengeti—back when it still had big game—and the Valley of the Kings.”

“Really?” I said.

“Certainly. I love to travel. Don’t you?”

“Well, yes, I guess, but…”

“What?”

“I’ve never been out of North America. See, I can’t—I couldn’t—fly. The pressure changes in an aircraft: they were afraid they’d set off my Katerinsky’s syndrome. It was only a small likelihood, but my doctor said I shouldn’t risk it unless the trip was absolutely necessary.” I thought briefly of the other me, on the way to the moon; he’d almost certainly survive the trip, of course. Spaceplanes were completely self-contained habitats; their internal pressure didn’t vary.

“That’s sad,” said Karen. But then she brightened. “But now you can travel anywhere!”

I laughed bitterly. “Travel! Christ, I can barely walk…”

Karen’s mechanical arm touched mine briefly. “Oh, you will. You will! People can do anything. I remember meeting Christopher Reeve, and—”

“Who’s he?”

“He played Superman in four movies. God, he was handsome! I had posters of him up on my bedroom walls when I was a teenager. Years later, he was thrown off a horse and injured his spinal cord. They said he’d never breathe on his own again, but he did.”

“And you met him?”

“Yes, indeed. He wrote a book about what happened to him; we’d shared a publisher back then, and we had dinner together at BookExpo America. What an inspiration he was.”

“Wow,” I said. “I suppose being a famous writer, you meet lots of interesting people.”

“Well, I didn’t bring up Christopher Reeve to name-drop.”

“I know, I know. But who else have you met?”

“Let’s see … what names would mean something to someone your age…? Well, I met King Charles before he died. The current Pope, and the one before him. Tamora Ng. Charlize Theron. Stephen Hawking. Moshe—”

“You met Hawking?”

“Yes. When I was giving a reading at Cambridge.”

“Wow,” I said again. “What was he like?”

“Very ironic. Very witty. Of course, communicating was an ordeal for him, but—”

“But what a mind!” I said. “Absolute genius.”

“He was that,” Karen said. “You like physics?”

“I love big ideas—physics, philosophy, whatever.”

Karen smiled. “Really? Okay, I’ve got a joke for you. Do you know the one about Werner Heisenberg being pulled over by a traffic cop?”

I shook my head.

“Well,” said Karen, “the cop says, ‘Do you know how fast you were going?’ And, without missing a beat, Heisenberg replies, ‘No, but I know where I am!’ ”

I burst out laughing. “That’s terrific! Wait, wait—I’ve got one. Do you know the one about Einstein on the train?”

It was Karen’s turn to shake her head.

“A passenger goes up to him and says, ‘Excuse me, Dr. Einstein, but does New York stop at this train?’ ”

Karen laughed out loud. “You and I are going to get along just fine,” she said. “Are you a professional physicist?”

“Nah. I was never good enough at math to make it. I did a couple of years at the University of Toronto, though.”

“And?”

I lifted my shoulders a bit. “Have you been to Canada often?”

“Over the years, from time to time.”

“And do you drink beer?”

“When I was younger,” said Karen. “I can’t anymore. I mean, I couldn’t, even in my old body … not for a decade or more.”

“Have you heard of Sullivan’s Select? Or Old Sully’s Special Dark?”

“Sure. They—oh! Oh, my! Your name is Jacob Sullivan, right? Is that your family?”

I nodded.

“Well, well, well,” said Karen. “So I’m not the only one with a secret identity.”

I smiled wanly. “Karen Bessarian earned her fortune. I just inherited mine.”

“Still,” said Karen, “it must have been nice. When I was young, I was always worrying about money. Even had to go to the food bank now and then. It must have been relaxing knowing you’d never have problems in that area.”

I shrugged a bit. “It was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, when I went to university, I could study whatever I wanted, without worrying about whether it was going to lead to a job. I was probably the only guy on campus who took Quantum Physics, History of Drama, and Intro to the Pre-Socratics.”

Karen laughed politely.

“Yeah,” I said. “It was fun—a little of this, a little of that. But the downside of having all that money was that I just wasn’t inclined to be treated like garbage. U of T’s got a great graduate reputation, but it’s an absolute factory at the undergrad level. Put it this way: if you walk every day by the Sullivan Library and your last name is Sullivan, you’re not inclined to be pushed around.”

“I suppose,” said Karen. “I never like to use the word ‘rich’ in relation to myself; it sounds like bragging. But, well, all of Immortex’s clients are rich, so I guess it doesn’t matter. But, of course, I never thought I was going to be wealthy. I mean, most writers aren’t; it’s a very tough life, and I’ve been very, very lucky.” She paused, and there was that twinkle in her artificial eye again. “In fact, you know what the difference is between a large pepperoni pizza and most full-time writers?”

“What?”

“A large pepperoni pizza can feed a family of four.”

I laughed, and so did she. “Anyway,” she said, “I didn’t begin to get rich until I was in my late forties. That’s when my books started to take off.”

I shrugged a little. “If I’d had to wait until my late forties to be rich, I wouldn’t be here. I’m only forty-four now.” Only. Christ, I’d never thought of it as only before.

“I—please don’t take this the wrong way—but in retrospect, I’m glad I started poor,” said Karen.

“I suppose it builds character,” I said. “But I didn’t ask to be rich. In fact, there were times I hated it, and everything my family stood for. Beer! Christ, where’s the social conscience in making beer?”

“But your family donated that library to the university, you said.”

“Sure. Buying immortality. It’s—”

I paused, and Karen looked at me expectantly.

After a moment, I shrugged again. “It’s exactly what I’ve just done, isn’t it?” I shook my head. “Ah, well. Anyway, it goes to your head sometimes, having all that money when you’re young. I, um, I was not the best person early on.”

“Paris the Heiress,” said Karen.

“Who?”

“Paris Hilton, granddaughter of the hotel magnate. You would have been just a toddler when she was briefly famous. She—well, I guess she was like you: inherited a fortune, had billions in her twenties. She lived what we writers call a dissipated life.”

“ ‘Paris the heiress,’ ” I repeated. “Cute.”

“And you were Jake the Rake.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I suppose I was. Lots of parties, lots of girls. But…”

“What?”

“Well, it’s pretty hard to know if a girl really likes you for you, when you’re rich.”

“Tell me about it. My third husband was like that.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Thank God for pre-nups.” Her tone was light. If she’d been bitter once, enough time had apparently passed to let her now joke about it. “You’ll have to only date women who are rich in their own right.”

“I suppose. But, you know, even—” Damn it, I hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

“What?”

“Well, you never know about people—know what they’re really thinking. Even before I was rich, I—there was this girl named Trista, and I thought she … I thought we …”

Karen raised her artificial eyebrows, but said nothing. It was clear I could go on, or not, as I wished.

And, to my great surprise, I did wish. “She seemed to really like me. And I was totally in love with her. This was, like, when I was sixteen. But when I asked her out, she laughed. She actually laughed in my face.”

Karen’s hand briefly touched my forearm. “You poor thing,” she said. “Are you married now?”

“No.”

“Ever been?”

“No.”

“Never found the right person?”

“It’s, um, not exactly like that.”

“Oh?”

Again, to my surprise, I went on. “I mean, there was—there is—this woman.

Rebecca Chong. But, you know, with my condition, I…”

Karen nodded sympathetically. But then I guess she decided to lighten the tone.

“Still,” she said, “you don’t necessarily have to wait for the right person to come along. If I’d done that I’d have missed out on my first three husbands.”

I wasn’t sure if my artificial eyebrows rose spontaneously in surprise; certainly, if I’d still been in my old body, my natural ones would have. “How many times have you been married?”

“Four. My last husband, Ryan, passed away two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice was full of sadness. “Me, too.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“Um—” She paused. “Just one.” Another pause. “Just one who lived.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

She nodded, accepting that. “I take it you don’t have any children?”

I shook my head and indicated my artificial body. “No, and I guess I never will.”

Karen smiled. “I’m sure you would have made a good father.”

“We’ll never—” Damn these new bodies! I’d thought the obvious, self-pitying thought, but had never intended to actually say it aloud. As before, I didn’t manage to kill it until a couple of words were already spoken. “Thanks,” I said. “Thank you.”

A pair of Immortex employees entered the lounge—a white woman and an Asian man. They looked surprised to see us there.

“Don’t let us disturb you,” Karen said to them as she stood up. “We were just leaving.” She held out a hand to help me get up. I took it without thinking, and was on my feet in a matter of seconds, Karen effortlessly pulling me up. “It’s been a long day,” Karen said to me. “I’m sure you want to go back to your room.” She paused, as if realizing that, of course, I couldn’t possibly be tired, then added, “You know, so you can change out of that robe, and so on.”

There it was—a perfect out; the escape that I’d been looking for earlier, the polite way to beg off that my lack of the need for sleep or food had denied me. But I didn’t want it anymore. “Actually,” I said, looking at her, “I’d like to do some more walking practice, if, ah, you’re willing to help me.”

Karen smiled so broadly it surely would have hurt had her face been flesh. “I’d love to,” she said.

“Great,” I replied, as we headed out of the lounge. “It’ll give us a chance to talk some more.”