My nonexistent heart stopped for a second; I really think it did.

—who had picked up the gun and now fired it directly into the center of Jacob's chest.

Jacob's mouth went into one of those imperfect "O's" that biologicals make, and his defective, color-blind eyes went wide, and a new crimson stain joined the others already on his shirt, and he staggered backward, and—

Oh, God…

— and, in an exact repeat of what had happened to Dad, he fell back into one of the swivel chairs, and the chair rotated a half turn, and the Jacob John Sullivan born of man and woman was no more.

"So, how did you do that?" I asked, after we'd left the moon-bus, and all the hubbub had died down.

"Do what?" Karen said.

"Break into the cockpit. And then push the cockpit door open against all that air pressure."

"You know," said Karen, staring at me with her one intact eye.

"No, I don't."

"Didn't you select the super-strength option?"

"What? No."

Karen smiled. "Oh," she said. "Well, I did."

I nodded, impressed. "Remind me not to piss you off."

" 'Mr. McGee,' " said Karen, " 'don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.' "

"What?"

"Sorry. Another TV program I have to show you."

"I'll look forward to — say! I cut off Deshawn. Do you know the verdict?"

"Oh, God!" said Karen. "I'd forgotten all about that. No, the jury was just coming in when he called; they hadn't read the verdict yet. Let's get him on the phone."

We had Smythe show us to the communications center, and we placed the call to Deshawn's cellular using a speaker phone so we could all hear. It turned out to be a complex process getting ahold of someone on Earth, involving actual human operators — I didn't know such things existed anymore. But at last Deshawn's phone was ringing.

"Deshawn Draper," he said, by way of greeting, then, after a second, "Hello? Is anybody—"

"Deshawn!" said Karen. "It's Karen, up on the moon — sorry about the time lag.

What's the verdict?"

"Oh, so now you're interested?" said Deshawn, sounding a bit miffed.

"I'm sorry, Deshawn," I said. "A lot has gone down. The biological me is dead."

A pause, for more than just the speed of light. "Oh, my," said Deshawn. "I'm so sorry. You must—"

"The verdict!" exclaimed Karen. "What was the verdict?"

" — feel totally awful. I wish — Oh, the verdict? Guys, I'm sorry. We lost; Tyler won."

"God," said Karen. And then, more softly, "God…"

"Of course, we'll appeal," said Deshawn. "My dad's already hard at work on the paperwork. We'll take this all the way to the Supreme Court. The issues are huge…"

Karen continued to talk to Deshawn. I drifted off toward a window, looking out at the barren lunar landscape, very sorry indeed that you couldn't see Earth from here.

Brian Hades was ecstatic to no longer be a hostage, and Gabe Smythe seemed glad that it was all over, too.

Except that it wasn't over. There was still one more issue that had to be resolved.

Karen was off speaking to the biological Malcolm Draper — getting his advice on appealing the ruling against her. Although in theory the biological Malcolm and the Mindscan one should have the same views, in practice their opinions had to have diverged — although, granted, not likely nearly as much as mine and Jacob's had.

While Karen was doing that, I went over to the High Eden administration building and confronted Hades and Smythe. Hades was behind his kidney-shaped desk, and Smythe was standing behind him, leaning effortlessly, as one could in this gravity, against a credenza.

"I know," I said simply, standing in front of them, "that you've made other instantiations of me. Some down on Earth, and at least one here on the moon."

Hades turned around, and he and Smythe looked at each other, the tall man with his white beard and ponytail, and the short one with his florid complexion and British accent.

"That's not true," said Hades, at last, turning back to face me.

I nodded. "The first tactic of corporate management, on any world: lie. But it's not going to work today. I'm positive about the other instantiations. I've been in contact with them."

Smythe narrowed his eyes. "That's not possible."

"Yes, it is," I said. "Some sort of … of entanglement, I think." Both men reacted with surprise at my use of that word. "And I know that you've been doing things to them, things to their minds. The question I want answered is, why?"

Hades said nothing, and neither did Smythe.

"All right," I said, "let me tell you what I think you're up to. I learned at the trial that there's a concept in philosophy called 'the zombie.' It's not precisely like the zombies of voodoo; those are reanimated dead folk. No, a philosophical zombie is a being that looks and acts just like us but has no consciousness, no self-awareness. Even so, it can perform complex, high-level tasks."

"Yes?" said Smythe. "So?"

" 'Seems you're the only one who knows / What it's like to be me.' "

"Sorry," said Smythe. "Were you singing just now?"

"I was trying to," I said. "That's a line from the theme song to an old TV series called Friends. Used to be one of Karen's favorite shows. And it was bang-on target: it's like something to be me; that's the real definition of consciousness. But for zombies, it isn't like anything. They aren't anybody. They don't feel pain or pleasure, even though they react as if they do."

"You realize," said Smythe slowly, "that not all philosophers believe such constructs are possible. John Searle was very much in favor of them, but Daniel Dennett didn't believe in them."

"And what do you believe, Dr. Smythe? You're head psychologist for Immortex.

What do you believe? What does Andrew Porter believe?"

"You won't answer that," said Hades, looking back over his shoulder. "I'm not a hostage anymore, Gabe — if you value your job, you won't answer that."

"Then I'll answer it," I said. "I think you do believe in zombies here at Immortex. I think you're experimenting on copies of my mind, trying to produce human beings without consciousness."

"Whatever for?" asked Smythe.

"For — everything. For slave labor, for sexual toys. You name it. Religious people would say these are bodies without souls; philosophers would say they're existing without being self-aware … without knowing that they exist, without anyone being home between their ears. The market for uploading consciousness may be huge, but the market for intelligent robot labor is even bigger. No one has found a way to make true artificial intelligence, until now — and your Mindscan process does it by the simplest method possible: exactly duplicating a human mind. I saw that bit with Sampson Wainwright on TV all those years ago — the two entities, behind the curtains. Your copies are exact — but that's not what you wanted, is it? Not really.

"No, you want the intelligence of humans, without the sentience, without the self-awareness, without it being like anything. You want those zombies — thinking beings that can perform even the most complex task flawlessly without ever complaining or getting bored. And so you're experimenting with bootleg copies of my mind, trying to carve out the parts that are conscious in order to produce zombies."

Smythe shook his head. "Believe me, nothing as nefarious as what you propose is at work here."

"Gabe," said Brian Hades, softly but sternly.

"It's better he know the truth," said Smythe, "than think something worse."

Hades considered for a long time, his round, bearded face immobile. Finally, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.