Mindscan

2

I knew what the “one catch” Sugiyama was referring to was. Despite all his salesperson’s talk about transferring consciousness, Immortex couldn’t really do that. At best, they were copying consciousness into a machine body. And that meant the original still existed.

“Yes,” said Sugiyama to the audience of which the old woman—Karen, that was her name—and I were part, “from the moment the synthetic body is activated, there will be two of you—two entities who each feel they are you. But which one is the real you? Your first impulse might be to respond that the flesh-and-blood one is the real McCoy.” Sugiyama tilted his head to one side. “An interesting philosophical point. I fully concede that that version did exist first—but does such primacy make it really you? In your own mental picture of yourself, which one do you consider the real you: the one that suffers aches and pains, the one that has trouble sleeping through the night, the one that is frail and old? Or the vigorous you, the you in full possession of all your mental and physical faculties? The you who faces each day with joy, instead of fear, with decades or centuries of life ahead, instead of—please do forgive me—scant months or years.”

I could see that Sugiyama was winning people over. Of course, these individuals had self-selected to come to this sales seminar, so they presumably were already predisposed to at least open-mindedness about these issues. Perhaps the average Joe in the street wouldn’t share their opinions—but, then, the average Joe in the street couldn’t possibly afford the Immortex process.

“You know,” said Sugiyama, “there used to be a lot of debate about this, but it’s all evaporated in the last few years. The simplest interpretation turned out to be the correct one: the human mind is nothing but software running on the hardware we call the brain. Well, when your old computer hardware wears out, you don’t think twice about junking it, buying a new machine, and reloading all your old software. What we at Immortex do is the same: the software that is you starts running on a new, better hardware platform.”

“It’s still not the real you,” grumbled someone in front of me.

If he heard the comment, Sugiyama was undaunted. “Here’s an old poser from philosophy class. Your father gives you an ax. After a few years of good service, the wooden handle breaks, and so you replace it. Is it still the ax your father gave you? Sure, why not? But then a few years after that, the metal head breaks, and you replace that. Now, nothing of the original is left—it wasn’t replaced all at once, but rather piece-by-piece. Is it still your father’s ax? Before you answer too quickly, consider the fact that the atoms that make up your own body are completely replaced every seven years: there’s not one bit of the you who was once a baby that still exists; it’s all been replaced. Are you still you? Of course you are: the body doesn’t matter, the physical instantiation doesn’t matter. What matters is the continuity of being: the ax traces its existence back to being a gift from your father; it is still that gift. And—” he underscored his next words with a pointing finger “—anyone who can remember having been you before is you now.”

I wasn’t sure I bought this, but I continued to listen.

“I don’t mean to sound harsh,” said Sugiyama, “but I know you are all realists—you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. You each know that your natural lives are almost over. If you elect to undergo our procedure, it’s the new you that will get to live on, in your house, your community, with your family. But that version of you will remember this moment right now when we discussed this, just as it will remember everything else you ever did; it will be you.”

He stopped. I thought it must be awkward to be a synthetic lecturer; a real person could choreograph his pauses with sips of water. But after a moment, Sugiyama went on. “But what happens to the original you?” he asked.

Karen leaned close to me, and whispered in a mock-menacing tone, “Soylent Green is people!” I had no idea what she was talking about.

“The answer, of course, is something wonderful,” said Sugiyama. “The old you will be provided for, in unsurpassed luxury, at High Eden, our retirement village on the far side of the moon.” Pictures of what looked like a five-star resort community began floating behind Sugiyama. “Yes, ours is the first-ever civilian residence on the moon, but we’ve spared no expense, and we’ll take care of the original you there in the highest possible style, until that sad but inevitable day when the flesh gives up.” I’d read that Immortex cremated the dead up there, and, of course, there were no funerals or grave markers—after all, they contended the person still lived on…

“It’s a cruel irony,” said Sugiyama. “The moon is the perfect place for the elderly. With a surface gravity only one-sixth of Earth’s, falls that would break a hip or leg here are trivial there. And, again, in that gentle gravity, even weakened muscles have plenty of strength. Hoisting oneself in and out of bed or the bath, or walking up stairs, is no longer a struggle—not that there are many stairs on the moon; people are so light on their feet there that ramps are better.

“Yes, being on the moon is wonderful, if you’re elderly; the original version of me is, right this very instant, having a grand time at High Eden, believe you me. But getting to the moon—that used to be quite another story. The high acceleration experienced during rocket liftoff from Earth is brutal, although after that, admittedly the rest of the journey, spent in effectively zero g, is a piece of cake. Well, of course, we don’t use rockets. That is, we don’t go straight up. Rather, we use spaceplanes that take off horizontally and gradually climb to Low Earth Orbit. At no time during the flight do you experience more than 1.4 g, and with our ergo-padded chairs and so forth, we can get even the frailest person to the moon safe and sound. And once there—” he paused dramatically—“paradise.”

Sugiyama looked around the room, meeting eyes. “What scares you? Getting sick? Not likely on the moon; everything is decontaminated as it enters one of the lunar habitats, and germs would have to travel through vacuum and endure harsh radiation to move from one habitat to another. Being mugged? There’s never been a mugging—or any other violent crime—on the moon. Those cold Canadian winters?” He chuckled. “We maintain a constant temperature of twenty-three degrees Celsius. Water, of course, is precious on the moon, so the humidity is kept low—no more hot muggy summers. You’ll feel like you’re enjoying a beautiful spring morning in the American Southwest all year round. Trust me: High Eden is the best possible retirement home, a wonderful resort with gravity so gentle that it makes you feel young again. It’s a win-win scenario, for the new you down here on Earth and the old one up there on the moon.” He smiled broadly. “So, any takers?”