Deshawn smiled at each juror in turn. " That is what should count! The content of one's character. And, as we have shown, the content of the plaintiff's character is identical to that of the biological original.

"Still, we would be wrong to dwell too much on the past — for what we have here is a question of the future. The Mindscan process that Karen Bessarian has gone through was hugely expensive … but all new techniques are. None of you on the jury are over sixty years of age, and several of you are much younger. By the time you are facing the difficult decisions that Karen Bessarian recently had to face, uploading will be inexpensive — it'll be an option available to you. Don't close that door. Your life can continue, just Karen Bessarian's has.

"The woman sitting over there — and she is a woman, in every sense of the word — is Karen Bessarian, to the very life. She remembers being a little girl in the 1960s in Georgia. She remembers her first kiss in the 1970s. She remembers giving birth to her son Tyler, there, and feeding him at her breast. She remembers the thrill of seeing her first book published. There's a concept in the law known as scienter — it refers to the knowledge that a person possesses, the awareness. This Karen Bessarian has the knowledge of the original; she is the same person.

"More than that, she has the same feelings, the same hopes, the same aspirations, the same creativity, and the same desires she always did. And you should give considerable weight to her desires — for this is exactly what she wanted. The biological Karen Bessarian intended for this continuation to be the real her, to control her assets, to live in her house, to go on enjoying her life, to continue telling stories of the characters the whole world loves. That's what Karen Bessarian wants: it's her decision, and it hurts no one except greedy relatives. Who are we to gainsay it?

"When you retire to deliberate, you'll hold not just Karen Bessarian's fate in your hands, but that of everyone else like her. including" — suddenly he was pointing at me — "that man there, Karen's boyfriend Jake." He shifted his aim slightly. "And that man, next to him, my own father — an upload whom I accept with every fiber of my being as being my dad.

"What will happen to these warm, loving, caring people if you rule for the defendant?

If you believe that the woman over there is not Karen Bessarian, then she will have nothing. No money, no reputation, no identity, and no rights. Do we want to go back to the days when there were people among us without rights? Do we want to return to the days of yore, when the definition of who was endowed with rights was narrow — men, not women, and only white men at that?

"No, of course not. We live in an enlightened present, and want to make an even better tomorrow." He walked over to the plaintiff's table and put his hand on Karen's shoulder; Karen brought her hand up and interlaced her fingers with his. "Do the forward-thinking thing," continued Deshawn. "Do the moral thing. Do the correct thing. Recognize that this woman is Karen Bessarian. Because, ladies and gentlemen, as you've surely seen during these proceedings, she truly is."

Deshawn thought the jury would deliberate for four days The jury consultant he'd hired was estimating a full week, and the commentator on Court TV opined it would be at least eight days. Karen and I went back to her mansion and tried to keep our minds occupied by anything but worrying about the verdict. We were both sitting in her living room — we'd decided we liked sitting, even though it wasn't necessary from a fatigue point of view; it just felt more natural. I was in that leather La-Z-Boy, and Karen was in an adjacent easy chair, trying to read a paper book. While reclined in the La-Z-Boy, I could clearly see what page she was on, and noticed she kept going back to re-read the same section. I guess her inner zombie was the only one able to pay attention while we waited.

I was watching highlights of the baseball games I'd missed on a small handheld viewer, with the sound off — I could do the play-by-play at least as well as the paid commentator.

Suddenly — is there any other way for it? — my cell phone rang; my ring tone was the theme to Hockey Night in Canada. The device was sitting on Karen's coffee table. I brought the La-Z-Boy to the upright position, scooped up the phone, held it in front of my face, and looked at the small picture screen, which said "Audio Only," followed by "Long Distance." I've never been good at resisting the phone; Karen says she has no trouble completely ignoring it — I suppose celebrity would do that to you. I hit a key and brought the handset to my ear. "Hello?" There was silence; I thought no one was there. "Hello?" I said again. "Hell—"

"Hello," said a man's voice with a British accent. "May I please speak with Jacob John Sullivan?"

"You've got him … Hello? Hello? Is there—"

"Good, excellent. Mr. Sullivan, my name is Gabriel Smythe. I work for Immortex."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Smythe … Mr. Smythe … Hello? Hello?"

"I apologize for the delays, Mr. Sullivan. You see, I'm calling you from the moon—"

"The moon!" I saw Karen react in surprise. "Is this about—"

"—in fact, from Heaviside Crater, on Lunar Far — yes, yes, this is about the original you. As I was saying—"

"What about him?"

"I'm at Heaviside, the facility — please, Mr. Sullivan, it's very difficult talking with these delays. Perhaps if we each said 'over' when we're done. Over."

Well, I'd always wanted to do that. "That's fine. Over."

Silence, then: "There, that's better. Now, as I was saying, I'm at Heaviside, at the facility our brochures call High Eden. Mr. Sullivan, it's about your original here. He's—"

"He's passed on?" I hadn't expected to be directly informed. Karen placed a soothing hand on my arm. "I, ah, don't want to—"

"—taken three people hostage, and — what? No, he hasn't passed on. Please, wait for me to say 'over.' He's taken three people hostage—"

"Hostages! That's impossible. Are you sure—"

"—and barricaded himself inside a moonbus, along with his captives, and — Please, Mr. Sullivan; we agreed you'd wait until I said 'over.' I haven't yet—"

"Sorry."

"—finished. Your original is demanding to talk with you. There, now: over."

Karen had moved in close so she could hear both sides of the conversation. Her green eyes were wide.

"Mr. Sulli—"

"Yes, I'm here. Sorry."

" — van? Are you there? Over."

"Yes, yes. I'm here. But, look, this is crazy. I know — I know myself. There's just no way on God's green Earth — or anywhere else, for that matter — that I'd ever do something like taking hostages." Silence, then I remembered: "Over."

Karen and I exchanged anguished looks while the seconds past, then: "Yes, we understand that. But — um, perhaps you know this? They found a cure for your … for his condition. Over."

"Really? Wow. No, I had no idea. That's … well, that's amazing. Um, over."

Silence, then: "We arranged for the procedure, of course. But there have been some aftereffects of the surgery. The doctor who treated him theorizes that his neurotransmitters are temporarily out of whack, and rather severely so. It's making him paranoid and violent. Over."

"Can you fix that?"

More silence, while radio waves bridged worlds, then, even though I hadn't properly terminated my last sentence, the cultured British voice came on again. "Surely — if we can get him into treatment, he'll be fine. But right now, as I said, he's holding three people hostage in a moonbus. And he's demanding his rights of personhood back. Of course, we—"