It's fun re-reading that book today, with 20/20 — hell, with 2045 — hindsight. Kurzweil got some things right, but missed out on several other key points. For instance, the technology to scan the brain at the supposedly required level of resolution appeared in the year 2019, but it turned out to do no good because the scanning took hours to complete, and, of course, even a sedated individual's brain undergoes all sorts of transitions during that period. Stitching together data about the brain over such a lengthy period produced a nonfunctional mess; it was impossible to match up visual impulses (or lack thereof) from the back of the head with thoughts about completely different impulses from the front of the head. Consciousness is the synchronized action of the entirety of the brain; scans that take anything more than mere moments to make would always be useless for reconstituting it.

But Immortex's Mindscan process allowed the taking of an overall, comprehensive, instantaneous snapshot. Dr. Porter took me down the hall to the scanning room, which had walls that looked orange to me. "Jake," said Porter, "this is Dr. Killian."

He indicated a plain-looking black woman of about thirty. "Dr. Killian is one of our quantum physicists. She'll operate the scanning equipment."

Killian stepped toward me. "And it won't hurt a bit, I promise," she said with a Jamaican accent.

"Thank you," I replied.

"I'll get back to my end," said Porter. Killian smiled at him, and he left.

"I think you know," Killian continued, "that we use quantum fog to do our brain scans. We permeate your head with subatomic particles — the fog. Those particles are quantally entangled with identical particles that Dr. Porter will soon be injecting into the artificial braincase of the new body he showed you; that body is still down the corridor, but distance doesn't matter to quantum entanglement"

I nodded; I also knew that Immortex had a strict policy about never letting the upload meet the original after transference. You could have a family member or a lawyer confirm that the upload and the original were both functioning just fine after the copying process, but despite Karen's earlier quip about looking forward to being beside herself, it was considered psychologically bad for two versions of the same person to ever meet; it destroyed one's sense of personal uniqueness.

Dr. Killian made a concerned face. "Now, I understand you have an AVM," she said. "But of course your new body doesn't rely on a circulatory system, so that's irrelevant to it."

I nodded. In just a few more minutes, I'd be free! My heart was pounding.

"All you have to do," continued Dr. Killian, "is lie down on this bed, here. We slide it into that scanning chamber — looks a bit like an MRI, doesn't it? And then we make the scan. It only takes about five minutes, and almost all of that is just setting up the scanners."

The idea that I was about to diverge was daunting. The me that was going to come out of this scanning cylinder would go on with its life, heading this afternoon to Pearson to catch the spaceplane, and from there it would go to the moon to live — how long? A few months? A few years? Whatever paltry amount his Katerinsky's would allow.

And the other Jake — who would just as vividly remember this moment — would soon go home and pick up his life where I'd left it off, but without potential brain damage or an early death hanging over his titanium head.

Two versions.

It was incredible.

I wished there was some way to copy only parts of myself, but that would require an understanding of the mind beyond what Immortex currently had. Too bad: there were plenty of memories I'd be happy to have edited out. The circumstances of Dad's injury, of course. But other things, too: embarrassments, thoughts I wasn't proud of, times when I'd hurt others and others had hurt me.

I lay down on the bed, which was attached by metal floor-mounted tracks to the scanning chamber.

"You push the green button to slide in," said Killian, "and the red one to slide out."

By old habit, I watched carefully to see which button she was gesturing to at which point. I nodded.

"Good," she said. "Press the green button."

I did so, and the bed slid into the scanning tube. It was quiet in there — so quiet I could hear my pulse in my ears, the gurgling of my digestion. I wondered what internal sounds, if any, I'd be aware of in my new body?

Regardless, I was looking forward to my new existence. Quantity of life didn't matter that much to me — but quality! And to have time — not only years spreading out into the future, but time in each day. Uploads, after all, didn't have to sleep, so not only did we get all those extra years, we got one-third more productive time.

The future was at hand.

Creating another me.

Mindscan.

"All right, Mr. Sullivan, you can come out now." It was Dr. Killian's voice, with its Jamaican lilt.

My heart sank. No…

"Mr. Sullivan? We've finished the scanning. If you'll press the red button…"

It hit me like a ton of bricks, like a tidal wave of blood. No! I should be somewhere else, but I wasn't.

Damn it all, I wasn't.

"If you need some help getting out…" offered Killian.

I reflexively brought up my hands, patting my chest, feeling the softness of it, feeling it rise and fall. Jesus Christ!

"Mr. Sullivan?"

"I'm coming, damn it. I'm coming."

I hit the button without looking at it, and the bed slid out of the scanning tube, emerging feet-first; a breech birth. Damn! Damn! Damn!

I hadn't exerted myself at all, but my breathing was rapid, shallow. If only—

I felt a hand cupping my elbow. "I've got you, Mr. Sullivan," said Killian.

"Upsa-daisy…" My feet connected with the harsh tile floor. I had known intellectually that it had been a fifty-fifty shot, but I'd only thought about what it was going to be like to wake up in a new, healthy, artificial body. I hadn't really considered…

"Are you all right, Mr. Sullivan?" she asked. "You look—"

"I'm fine," I snapped. "Fine and dandy. Jesus Christ—"

"Is there something I can—"

"I'm doomed. Don't you get it?"

She frowned. "Do you want me to call a medical doctor?"

I shook my head. "You just scanned my consciousness, making a duplicate of my mind, right?" My voice was sneering. "And since I'm aware of things after you finished the scanning, that means I — this version — isn't that copy. The copy doesn't have to worry about becoming a vegetable anymore — it's free. Finally and at last, it's free of everything that's been hanging over my head for the last twenty-seven years.

We've diverged now, and the cured me has started down its path. But this me is still doomed. I could have woken up in a new, healed body, but—"

Killian's voice was gentle. "But, Mr. Sullivan, one of you was bound to still be in this body…"

"I know, I know, I know." I shook my head, and took a few paces forward. There was no window in the scanning room, which was probably just as well; I don't think I was quite ready to face the world. "And the one of us that is still in this bloody body, with this fucked brain, is still doomed."