Mindscan

"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."

9

The spaceplane was still climbing. I'd thought the constant acceleration would be uncomfortable, but it wasn't. Out the window, I could see sunlight glinting off the Atlantic ocean far below. I turned my head to face inside, and the presumably redheaded man sitting next to me seized his chance. "So," he said, "what's your job?"

I looked at him. I didn't really have a job, but I did have a true-enough answer. "I'm in wealth management."

But that caused his freckled forehead to crease. "Immortex wants wealth managers on the moon?"

I realized the source of his confusion. "I'm not an Immortex employee," I said. "I'm a customer."

His light-colored eyes went wide. "Oh. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," I said.

"It's just that you're the youngest customer I've ever seen."

I smiled a smile that hopefully wasn't an invitation to more questions. "I've always been an early adopter."

"Ah," said the man. He stuck out a hand that was as freckled as his face. "Quentin Ashburn," he said.

I shook his hand. "Jake Sullivan." I didn't really want to continue talking about me, so I added, "What do you do, Quentin?"

"Moonbus maintenance."

"Moonbus?"

"It's a long-distance surface vehicle," Quentin said. "Well, actually, it flies just above the surface. Best way to cover a lot of lunar territory fast. You'll be riding in one when we get to the moon; the ship from Earth will only take us to Nearside."

"Right," I said. "I read about that."

"Oh, moonbuses are fascinating," said Quentin.

"I'm sure they are," I said.

"See, you can't use airplanes on the moon, because—"

"Because there's no air," I said.

Quentin looked a bit miffed at having his thunder stolen, but he went on. "So you need a different kind of vehicle to get from point A to point B."

"So I'd imagine," I said.

"Right. Now, the moonbus — it's rocket-propelled, see? Fu

I could see that it was going to be a very long trip.

I was slowly getting the hang of walking with my new legs, thanks to Karen Bessarian's help. I'd always been impatient; I suppose thinking you didn't have much time left was part of the cause. Of course, Karen — in her eighties — must have similarly felt that her days had been numbered. But she'd apparently adapted immediately to the notion of being more or less immortal, whereas I was still stuck in the time-is-ru

Ah, well. I'm sure I'd make the transition. After all, it's supposed to be old people who are set in their ways, not guys like me. But no — that was unfair. They say you're as young as you feel, and Karen certainly didn't feel old now; maybe she never had.

Four others besides Karen and me had received new bodies today. I'm sure they'd all been at the same sales pitch I'd attended, but I hadn't talked to anyone except Karen there, and these people now had faces so much younger than what I'd presumably seen then that I didn't recognize any of them. We were all to spend the next three days here, undergoing physical and psychological testing ("hardware and software diagnostics," I'd overheard one of the Immortex employees say to Dr. Porter, who had given the younger man a very stern look).

I was pleased to see that I wasn't the only one who'd been having trouble walking. A girl — yes, damn it, she looked like a girl, all of sixteen — was using a wheelchair.

Immortex clients could choose just about any age to look like, of course. This reconstruction must have been based on 2D photos — if this girl were Karen, she'd have been sixteen in the mid-nineteen seventies — where, I think, hairstyles had been all fluffy, and blue eye shadow had been in vogue. But whoever this was wasn't trying to regress: her hair was short and tightly curled, in today's fashion, and she had a band of bright pink from temple to temple, across the bridge of her nose, the kind of makeup kids today liked.

Two of the others were also female, and three of them were white. Like Karen, they had opted to look about thirty — meaning, ironically, that all these minds that were much older than mine were housed in bodies that appeared substantially younger than even my new one did. The other upload was a black male. He'd adopted a serene face of perhaps fifty. Actually, now that I thought about it, he looked a lot like Will Smith; I wondered if that's what his original had looked like, or if he'd opted for a new face.

Karen was chatting with the other women. She apparently knew at least one of them from philanthropic circles. I suppose it was natural that the four old women would spend tune together. And, by default, that meant I ended up talking with the other man.

"Malcolm Draper," the man said, extending a large hand.

"Jake Sullivan," I replied, taking it. Neither of us were inclined to that silly male game of demonstrating how strong we were by squeezing too hard — probably just as well, given our new robotic hands.

"Where are you from, Jake?"

"Here. Toronto."

Malcolm nodded. "I live in New York. Manhattan. But of course you can't get this service down there. So, what do you do, Jake?"