Mindscan

24

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 GmbH 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.”