Mindscan

But another me — the Mindscan version — would come back here in a few days; this house would be its — my — home. Anything the old me took from here would be missed by the new me — and the new me would have decades (I still couldn't easily think "centuries" or "millennia") to enjoy it, while the old me…

That was the one thing that I had packed. It wasn't a perfect solution, since if I did end up a quadriplegic or in a vegetative state, I wouldn't be able to administer it myself. But the little vial of drugs in that small unlabeled box would finish me off if need be.

People sometimes wondered why I didn't leave Canada and move to the States, a land with lower taxes for the rich. The answer was simple: physician-assisted suicide was legal here, and my will specified the conditions under which I wanted to be terminated. In the States, ever since the Buchanan administration — Pat, not James — doctors were legally obligated to keep me alive even if I had severe brain damage or couldn't move; they'd keep me alive despite my wishes.

But, of course, on the moon, there were no national laws to worry about; there were just a few scientific outposts and private-sector manufacturing facilities there.

Immortex would do what I wanted. They had every client swear out an advance directive, describing precisely what to do in case they became incapacitated or ended up in a persistent vegetative state. If I could do it myself, I would, and the kit I'd packed, a kit that had lived in my night-table drawer for years, would do the trick.

It was the one item I knew the artificial me wouldn't miss.

I set up the robokitchen to take care of feeding my dog while — well, I was about to say, "While I was gone," but that's not quite right. But it would feed her during the changing of the guard…

"Well, Clamhead," I said, scratching the old girl vigorously behind the ears, "I guess that's it. You be a good girl, now."

She barked her agreement, and I headed for the door.

Immortex's facility was in Markham, a high-tech haven in the northern part of Toronto. I drove out to my appointment, heading east along the 407 — somewhat irritated that I had to do the driving. Where the hell was the self-driving car? I understood that flying cars would likely never exist — too much potential for major damage when one came crashing out of the sky. But when I'd been a boy, they'd promised there would be self-driving cars soon. Alas, so many of the things that had been predicted had been based on the school of thought known as strong AI — the notion that artificial intelligence as powerful, intuitive, and effective as human intelligence would soon be developed. The complete failure of strong AI had taken a lot of people by surprise.

Immortex's technique detoured around that roadblock. Instead of replicating consciousness — which would require understanding exactly how it worked — the Immortex scientists simply copied consciousness. The copy was as intelligent, and as aware, as the original. But a de novo AI, programmed from the ground up, such as Hal 9000 — the computer from that tedious movie whose title was the year I had been born — was still an unfulfilled fantasy.

Immortex's facility wasn't large — but, then, they weren't a high-volume business. Not yet. I noted that the entire first row of parking spaces was designated for handicapped visitors — far more than Ontario law required, but, then again, Immortex catered to an unusual demographic. I parked in the second row and got out.

The wall of heat hit me like a physical blow. Southern Ontario in August had supposedly been hot and muggy even a century ago. Little incremental increases, year by year, had all but banished snow from Toronto's winters and had made high summer almost unbearable. Still, I couldn't complain too much; those in the southern U.S. had it far, far worse — doubtless that was one of the reasons that Karen had moved from the South to Detroit.

I got my overnight bag, with the things I'd need for my stay here at Immortex, out of the back seat. I then walked quickly to the front door, but found myself perspiring as I did so. That would be another advantage of an artificial body, no doubt: no more sweating like the proverbial pig. Still, I might have been sweating anyway today, even if it hadn't been so bloody hot; I was certainly nervous. I went through the revolving glass door, and took a nice, deep breath of the cool air inside. I then presented myself to the receptionist, who was seated behind a long granite counter. "Hi," I said, surprised at how dry my mouth was. "I'm Jacob Sullivan."