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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