Asimov's Science Fiction: September 2013 (18 page)

Arly Morse's body had slipped to her knees while he was playing with her brain. Two men were offering her their hands. He turned around, eyes fixed on the side-walk, and drove toward the corner while she was still reorienting.

She liked to be called Arly. The name permeated most of her memories. He had knocked a few seconds off the search when he had realized her account numbers would be linked to memories associated with Arline.

He stopped in front of a store window, half a block from the corner, and jotted the account numbers in a notebook, along with the appropriate passwords. The passwords had been easy in her case. She was the kind of person who committed them to memory. They looked random at first glance. Then he realized they were Jane Austen titles, with two-digit numbers inserted in the middle. Publication dates?

He turned another corner and slipped into one of the small streets that broke up the downtown area. He wandered past closed stores and maneuvered around side-walk tables as he looked for a good place to stop and phone in the numbers. He disliked people who weaved through busy streets with their minds focused on their phones and pads.

Most of the people sitting at the tables outside the restaurants wouldn't have linked him with a ship. The city was an inland port, connected to the ocean by a river, and they didn't see most of the traff ic it attracted. The ship that had brought him here was moored twenty miles down the river, waiting for its turn beside one of the high cranes that transferred containers to trucks and freight trains.

He had covered another two blocks before he realized he was putting off the call.

He wasn't a mind reader. He couldn't stand outside another person and pick up their thoughts and feelings, as if he had set up a wifi connection. He took complete control—just as they would have taken control of his brain if they hadn't been thrown into confusion. But he could still pick things up. Bits of emotion could trickle into the alien consciousness that had imposed its grip on their brains and bodies.

She had been afraid. Her biological fear responses had been so strong they created a current that persisted through most of the time he had been riffling through her brain.

He had settled into one of the faded, lower priced hotels in the city, as he usually did. The bar had a corner booth where he could stare at a drink.

It wasn't the first time he had felt that steady glimmer of fear. The last time the numbers on his search list had included an address. The time before that the client had asked for an alias.

Both targets had been carrying information about someone else. The implications had been obvious. The second target had even looked like a mobster—a big brute with a rocky face, cased in a suit that would have cost more than most people's vacations. He shouldn't have been afraid of anything. But he was. And he had been carrying the alias his brother was using.

They hadn't told Gerdon why they wanted Arly Morse's numbers. He never asked. He let people know he could dig up private information and they let him know what they wanted. He didn't know who they were and he moved on as soon as he picked up the first signs they were wondering who he was. And how he did it.

For all he knew, they could be federal agents looking for a shortcut in a tax case. Or local cops running a corruption probe.

He plodded up to his room after he finished his drink. A basketball game lulled him into sleep in the third quarter. He still hadn't phoned in the numbers when he hurried out of the hotel the next morning.

Arly lived in an office building that had been converted to apartments, on a main street where he could blend into the pedestrian traffic that streamed past the door.

She came through the door earlier than he'd expected—just fifteen minutes after he slipped into a surveillance pattern. He dropped behind a bulky luggage puller and stayed with her while she walked toward the corner. It was a good day for a tail—a gray day in November that surrounded him with people wearing coats, jackets, and headgear.

He had never had any formal training as an investigator but he had picked up tricks. She popped into a coffee shop two blocks from her building and he selected a position on the other side of the street, out of the line of sight from the coffee shop windows. He modif ied his appearance by pushing his hat back on his head—like a reporter in an old black and white movie—and unbuttoning his coat. He had grabbed a sausage and egg sandwich from a street cart but he'd skipped coffee.

She worked three blocks from the coffee shop, in an old six-story building that had received a full rehab, complete with sandblasting and white paint on the window frames. The plaque next to the shiny glass door said it was the Dr. J.J. Shen Medical Building.

She was still standing in front of the elevators when he hurried through the door with his head lowered and his phone pressed against his ear. He swept his eyes over the directory and noted that every floor housed a different specialty. She pressed the button for three—oncology. He picked five, Radiology Associates, and hit Lobby when everybody else got off.

She could be a patient, of course. That would account for the fear. But she had looked to him like she was on her way to work.

She left the building just after twelve thirty. She stopped at an ATM. She loitered in front of a window devoted to handbags and gloves. She went inside a woody saladand-soup place and he verified she was standing in the order line when he walked past the window.

He was hungry. He was bored. He knew what he needed and she hadn't given him any indication he was going to get it. She would go back to her off ice. She would march straight from her job to her apartment. There wouldn't be one moment between now and the end of the day when he could spend three minutes in her head without raising a commotion that would surround both of them with an instant flash mob.

He would have spotted the two men if he had been a real streetwise investigator. He had seen both of them while he had been watching Dr. Shen's real estate venture.

They sandwiched him between them while Arly was still consuming her soup and salad. The one on his left was obviously the muscle. A little short for the job, but solid. The one on his right was taller and wore glasses.

"We'd like to talk to you," the muscle said.

It wasn't the first time Gerdon had faced the threat of violence, but that didn't make it any easier. He had learned everything he needed to know about violence the first time he had been kicked in the kidneys while he had been doubled up on the ground.

The tall one had a square, Anglo-Saxon face that might have looked annoyingly upper class if he hadn't been wearing glasses. They were both dressed like financial types but he looked like one.

"You've been watching Ms. Morse," the tall one said. "All morning."

The muscle frowned. "We're getting a taxi," the tall one said. "Keep quiet." Hands gripped his arms. He glanced down the street and saw a pair of taxis waiting for the next light.

He let himself sag at the knees as he made the swap. He looked out of the muscle's eyes and saw his own body drooping, He had a clear shot at the Anglo-Saxon's face and he took it.

The muscle would have put more power into it if he had been controlling his own body but Gerdon had the element of surprise in his favor. The muscle's right fist connected with a target that was totally unprepared.

He jumped back to his own body and found himself kneeling on the curb with his head slumped. Above him, he could hear both of them grunting and swearing. He backed up in a crouch and hurried toward the corner. He had made a dangerous miscalculation. The muscle was not stupid. He had only been inside his head for a moment but it had been obvious the muscle was the leader. He couldn't assume he could creep out of sight while they wasted time trying to figure out what had happened.

So why were they watching her? Why were they combining physical surveillance with a probe of her bank accounts?

Why did they even need him? They knew where she lived. They knew where she worked. They had an organization that could keep two hooligans busy just watching her. Couldn't they break into her apartment and look through her files?

The whole incident looked weird. They had come up to him on a busy street, without knowing who he was, and tried to force him into a taxi. What kind of an organization did stuff like that?

He could always just
ask
them why they'd hired him, of course. Leave a message on the phone drop.
Listen, I've got those numbers you wanted. But I'd like to know what you're up to before I give them to you. Just in case it might be something—

Something what? Something that might harm a nice looking woman with a stylish walk and a taste for Jane Austen novels?

He couldn't even claim he liked Jane Austen. He had read
Pride and Prejudice
twice. It was funny. It passed the time. But he had never been able to read any of the others. He had to work just to get through the first two chapters.

He shouldn't have panicked. He had let them see something odd was happening. The Jane Austen movies had been good. He'd liked all the film versions.

He bought a black coat in a department store and switched coats in his hotel room. The price tag had made him pause, but who knew? He liked this city. He had been thinking about staying for a while when he got off the ship.

He timed it so he would be approaching Dr. Shen's building just before five. He could have timed it more precisely if he had waited until morning. He knew what time she arrived. But he didn't want to wait. His new finery would help him evade the watchers if they were still around.

As it was, she stepped onto the sidewalk just a minute after he paused at a spot half a block from her door, on the other side of the street. He took two steps, as he had planned, and settled into a chair outside a pizza place.

And found himself staring at her back, through the eyes of some hapless passerby, probably male.

He jumped back to his own body and stood up. The passerby was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, irritating the people maneuvering around him.

He had known he was taking a chance trying to make a swap at that distance. Normally he stayed within a few steps of the target, with a firm line of sight.

He closed in on her while she waited for the light at a corner near her apartment. There was a restaurant with sidewalk tables and tall outdoor heaters near the end of the next block. He hurried around her and grabbed a vacant chair two steps before she passed.

This time he kept her body under control. He recovered from a stumble and steered her toward a store window.

Stand still. Stare at the window. Focus on the fear. What is the fear linked to?

He had never done anything like this. He was riff ling through her memories with all the frenzy of a burglar who knew the night watchman was coming down the hall. Facts raced at him like a cloud of buzzing insects. Associations that looked relevant led him into amorphous bogs.

He was still sitting in the chair when he reestablished contact with his body. His head had turned to the left. He was staring at Arly Morse's back.

Arly was still facing the store window. Exactly where he had left her. Left hand in coat pocket. Back straight. He hadn't noticed the hand in the pocket when he'd been inside her. Some part of him must have been looking after her body.

She turned around. Her free hand jumped to her mouth.

He stared at her. Should he hop up and get away from her? Had she really figured it out that fast? And adjusted emotionally?

How long had they been swapped?

A hand settled on his shoulder. The muscle stepped past him and hurried toward Arly.

"It's a nice evening, isn't it?" the man behind him said.

They had brought a friend this time—a plump cheeryface who had decked out the standard uniform with an orange bow tie. He stepped in front of Gerdon's chair, close enough to force a pin, and Gerdon looked back and verif ied the hand on his shoulder belonged to the tall guy who'd taken the punch the last time they'd met.

The tall guy was bawling their location into a phone. The muscle had started maneuvering Arly toward the table, one hand gripping her wrist, his other arm wrapped around her shoulder in a friendly looking embrace. People glanced at them as they went by but nobody stopped. It was hurry-home time. Let somebody else worry about it.

The car met them at the corner, a few steps from the restaurant. It was an SUV, with seats for six, and that created an awkwardness. Muscle finally decided Arly should sit in front, next to the driver, and Gerdon should sit behind her, with the muscle beside him and the other two watching his back.

Arly had stared at him the whole time she was being pushed toward the table. She had told them she was willing to see "Freddy" anytime he wanted to talk to her, but that had been the only thing she had said so far.

"We're just looking for some information," the tall guy said when they had all been properly packed into the car. "We're just trying to find out what this guy is up to."

The muscle rolled his eyes. Gerdon had caught glimpses of him when he had been darting through Arly's memories. Arly had realized he was the smart one, too.

He studied the controls of the car as they drove through the city. He didn't drive much, given his predilection for cities, and they kept adding new things between his stints behind the wheel. Could he swap with the driver and open all the doors as he pulled the car to a violent stop? And hop back to his own body and jump out while they were all reacting to total chaos?

It was a nice fantasy. But what would Arly do?

They were obviously going to see "Freddy." Why not wait and see what Freddy wanted?

Freddy lived in a two-story stone house on a block where all his neighbors lived in two-story stone houses. It didn't look that impressive to Gerdon, but the tall guy had muttered something about "welcome to the rich people's world" when they entered the neighborhood.

They unpacked themselves according to the muscle's step-by-step instructions. They trudged down the driveway in a tight little formation and the muscle pressed his palm against a plate next to a side door.