Hopscotch (17 page)

31

Morning in the mansion,
time to exercise again. Another day at work.

The sheets retracted, and Eduard crawled out. His muscles were unusually sore, and even his bones felt somehow bruised. “I should take better care of my own body,” he said out loud, looking at the walls. Unfortunately, after spending so much time conditioning Ob's well-tuned physique, he was daunted by the prospect of exercising his own body.

Worse, his mouth tasted awful, as if Mordecai Ob had eaten cold squid and garlic before swapping back with him. He rinsed with a strong mouthwash, but the foul flavor lingered. On mornings like this, Eduard gladly traded bodies with the Bureau Chief.

Out in the conservatory, Ob wore a thick bathrobe and sat on a white wrought-iron chair eating his breakfast. Eduard reported for duty in an Ever-Pressed suit, just in case Ob needed to go into BTL Headquarters. “Have you eaten yet, Eduard? I'm going to need the energy for a long day.”

“Sorry.” Eduard bent over to the fruit plate and wolfed down some pineapple and bananas.

“Enough.” The Chief gestured, and the two men hopscotched so they could go about their business. Ob bustled out of the conservatory without saying goodbye, apparently in a hurry to get to work locked in his secluded home office.

Eduard sat back down in the white garden chair, wishing he could relax and enjoy the remaining breakfast on the plate, but Ob had already eaten his fill, and this body was no longer hungry. He went into the gym to change from Ob's bathrobe into exercise clothing.

On his morning run, he paused for a few minutes to talk with Tanu. Ever since he'd borrowed the huge Samoan's body to use against Rhys, Eduard had tried to draw out the quiet and introspective gardener. From simple snippets of conversation, he discovered that the big man had many deep thoughts. Tanu spent much time in quiet contemplation as he worked among his silent flowers and trees.

Eduard circled and came to a stop, jogging in place to stay warmed up. “You've worked on the estate for a long time, haven't you?” He panted as he tried to catch his breath.

“Years,” the gardener said, his typical extensive conversation.

“So . . . you must see a lot of things going on around here.”

The Samoan just looked at him with sad, dark eyes, then found the Japanese maple beside him intensely interesting. He plucked one of the small leaves off a branch, but refused to speak what was on his mind.

With a sigh, Eduard knew he had overstayed his welcome. He jogged in place for a few more moments to build up energy, then ran off again.

After what the Sharetakers had done to Teresa, Daragon took pleasure in his subtle, inexorable revenge. He had known about the fugitive Robertha Chambers, and
Rhys,
but the Sharetakers had removed all COM terminals from their enclave, refused to use the computer network, and had therefore effectively blinded the Beetles. So much could have been prevented. . . .

The Data Hunter Jax would have taken a particular delight in assisting him, but Daragon drew satisfaction from his staged humiliation of Rhys/Robertha. He would not, could not, go against Mordecai Ob's explicit orders—but the resources of the BTL gave him plenty of alternatives.

Eduard had already done a marvelous, though brutal, job of exacting revenge on the Sharetaker leader. But that simply wasn't good enough. Not for Daragon. And not for Teresa . . .

During his routine meetings with the Bureau Chief, he was often bemused to see Eduard's familiar features sitting behind the massive desk. Though the younger body was compact and wiry, Ob behaved with the same confidence, took the same dominating stance as when he wore his own form. His forceful personality did not change with his physical appearance.

Daragon said, “So, I take it everything is satisfactory with Eduard, sir?”

“He's adequate, though occasionally careless.” Ob had smiled behind the younger man's dark eyes. “I think we've got it all worked out, though. I depend on swapping with him to keep myself in peak physical condition.”

“I am glad to know that, sir. There have been times when I doubted you saw any benefits in the swapping process.”

Ob had laughed at the suggestion. “I have never been fool enough to speak out against hopscotching! There isn't a single married couple that hasn't tried it, at least behind bedroom doors, experimenting with each other's bodies.”

He brushed his fingers down Eduard's chest. “Some people go to work in another body, just like your friend here. But not everyone needs to make a game out of it. When simple moral common sense doesn't work, we try to scare people out of swapping too much. Take slippage, for instance. You realize, of course, that the disease isn't real?” Ob raised his eyebrows in a very non-Eduard expression.

The information took Daragon aback. “Slippage doesn't exist?”

“Just a well-intentioned fiction that we put into propaganda stories released regularly to COM newsnets. The sinister threat of having your mind detached and floating through space adds just a touch of uncertainty. We can't prevent body-swapping, but we can certainly make it seem more risky.”

Daragon remained standing at attention, for once relieved that he was different, unable to hopscotch at will. “I . . . understand, sir.”

Today, though, the Bureau Chief had decided to work from home, and Daragon quietly embarked on his plan against the Sharetakers. One by one, he selected members of the enclave, people who had refused to help Teresa, who had watched Rhys's abuse and ignored it. He dug through their pasts, found reasons to discredit or embarrass them. Body and property leases were mysteriously canceled or annulled; some members were arrested for fraud. Severe fines were levied for the most obscure or minor infractions.

The Sharetakers didn't know what had hit them. They desperately tried to sell expensive items to recoup credits. With a smile, Daragon input a string of commands that marked those goods as stolen property, thus rendering them ripe for confiscation. Because of his secret identity, Rhys didn't dare file an official complaint.

Someday, he would tell Teresa what he had done. But for now, Daragon kept it as his secret.

Furtive in his mansion, Mordecai Ob locked himself in his study. There would be time to go to BTL Headquarters later. For now . . .
inspiration.

Hibiscus shrubs covered the window glass of his study, obscuring his view with a tangled green curtain. All the privacy he required. He couldn't let anyone see what he was doing.
Not this.

So far, Daragon had restored some exhilaration to the Bureau Chief's work, and watching Garth Swan's passion had reminded him of his early days, before he'd lost the courage and stamina to follow his dream. Ob had been so young and enthusiastic once, so full of creative energy, so driven.

But those days were long gone, swallowed in cynicism and boredom. He had more money than he knew how to spend. He ran the Bureau of Tracing and Locations, doing a great service by finding fugitives and reuniting families. A man in his position might well dabble in politics, but Ob had no interest in such things. Secondary agendas created more problems than advantages.

However, as with so many celebrities who had everything they could possibly want, ennui had set in. He had forgotten his drive to be an artist, and he had lost his interest in the Bureau. Mordecai Ob looked for ways to enjoy life again, challenges to face . . . or at least some sort of creative stimulus.

He had fallen into the trap of Rush-X.

The potent, illegal drug was distilled from an extract of shellfish found off the Yucatán coast. The precipitate dried to a glistening powder, like crushed pearls, which was then suspended in a glycerin solution, meant to be delivered under the tongue. As part of their job, ruthless BTL investigators had tracked down a major manufacturer of the drug, and the confiscated samples had come to Ob as evidence.

Rush-X gradually caused a body to disintegrate, scrapping the neurons and causing a condition akin to multiple sclerosis. Despite its known hazards, people paid enormous amounts of money and risked their own health just for the thrills the drug provided: increased energy, euphoria, unbelievable creative inspiration.

Back then, Mordecai Ob hadn't understood why.

Feeling adrift at a time when he had so much of the drug available to him,
entrusted
to him, Ob—against his better judgment in a moment of intense boredom and indecision—picked up a glasgel capsule of Rush-X. He had never stopped regretting his unrealistic dream of becoming an artist. One dose couldn't cause significant harm, or so he'd hoped. The drug inventory had already been documented, and all the samples were to be incinerated. No one would question him.

Before he could change his mind, Ob had placed a tiny capsule of the pearly liquid under his tongue. He broke the quick-dissolving shell and let the drug penetrate the soft sublingual tissues. At first it tasted awful, fishy and spicy, like sushi mixed with cleaning fluid.

Then the effect hit.

The experience was amazing. Though he had been bored and depressed, Ob's mind suddenly opened. He was energized, exhilarated. Everything around him looked colorful, vibrant,
inspired!
In only a few seconds, the Bureau Chief rediscovered a passion for life.

Later, with his BTL connections, he was able to get his hands on Rush-X seizures often enough to supply his habit. The contraband drug was destroyed weekly, and Chief Ob could “inspect” the batches scheduled for destruction. He could experience this rush of energy anytime he wanted, anytime he needed particular stamina, or passion for his work.

But the threat raised itself with a particular horror. Ob had seen dying Rush-X addicts and vowed never to let that happen to his own body, no matter how badly he wanted chemically induced thrills. Then he'd remembered his personal caretaker, and the solution had come to him. . . .

That had been years ago, and still the glamour and drama of Rush-X had not grown old. It made him remember the way he had felt on his best days as a young artist, trying to draw everything, to capture his vision of the world. No challenge seemed too great.

Now, inside Eduard Swan's borrowed body, Mordecai Ob leaned back in a padded chair. The office door was locked. He cracked a capsule of pearlescent frozen fire with his teeth, then tucked it under his tongue. He rode the racehorse of energy that burned destructive flames through Eduard's flesh. As the euphoria hit, a smile froze on his face.

Ob wouldn't be able to keep his secret forever. But he could last longer than Eduard would. . . .

32

The fountain became
Teresa's regular place to meet with Arthur, but it was just a starting point. From there, she and the interesting old man would walk along the streets, through the parks, into the shops. Arthur talked and talked, and Teresa listened to his musings. She had never met such a complex and unpredictable person, who had thought through deep questions that few other people bothered to consider.

He led her down mysterious alleys packed with out-of-the-way boutiques that sold exotic herbs or hypnotic trinkets from ancient cultures. In front of a ramshackle storefront under a sign written in Chinese characters, Arthur rummaged in a basket propped askew on a doorstep. From inside, they could smell the spicy scent of drying knots of genetically engineered ginseng.

“I'm delighted you're interested in my oddball ideas, Teresa.” Arthur withdrew a carved lump of fossil ivory and looked sidelong at her. Teresa watched him with intent eyes, more captivated by the old man than by the exotic paraphernalia. “No one's really listened for a long time. Everyone either ignores me or scorns me. I can't tell you how often people have said I was crazy.”

“Oh, you just look at things in a different way, see the world in a different light.” Teresa looked at the carved ivory in his hand. “Do you like that? I'll buy it for you.”

He set it back in the basket. “You don't have to buy me anything.”

“Then how about lunch? You look like you haven't had a decent meal.”

“Okay, but don't make it expensive.”

“I can't
afford
anything expensive, Arthur.” She took him by the scrawny arm and led him to an automated cafeteria. Inside, customers shuffled down the line, looking at picture menus and touch-selecting items. Aroma diffusers provided whiffs of what the food smelled like.

Teresa used image software to arrange the food on her plate and distribute the condiments to suit her tastes. Arthur contented himself with vegetable stir fry and a double portion of brown rice. When the plates appeared at the end of the tray line, the food didn't look much like the glorified pictures, but Teresa was hungry, and Arthur seemed in heaven as he went to work on his meal.

As they ate, Teresa said, “Just listening to you, Arthur, makes things clearer for me. I really appreciate your taking the time to explain human physiology. But . . . your own body, I can tell it's not too healthy. Are you okay?”

“Nothing serious.” Arthur studied his plate instead of her eyes. He toyed with his chopsticks. After weeks of talking to him, she had noticed his frequent cough, his shaking hands.

“Would you like to experience being young again? Spend some time feeling healthy?” Teresa brushed her fingertips along the back of her other hand. “This body isn't perfect, but it's very nice. I would . . . I'd be honored if you would hopscotch with me.”

Arthur almost choked on a mouthful of diced vegetables.

Nervously, Teresa tried to fathom his shocked expression. “Oh, what did I do wrong? I just want to thank you in some way. If . . . if it makes you uncomfortable to be female, I could come back in a male body. Would that make you feel more at home?”

He squeezed her hand in his own callused grip. “Teresa, you've got to work with what you've
got,
not just jump to the next body whenever a problem comes along. Changing to a different body doesn't change you into a different person.”

“But . . . don't you like to hopscotch? Did you have a bad experience once?” She felt giddy, her cheeks hot and flushed. She
needed
to give him something.

“Never done it. Never had the desire to.”

He went back to his lunch as Teresa stared at him in astonishment, remembering Daragon's inability. “You've never hopscotched?”

“Not once.” With the lines of weariness and patience apparent around his eyes, he took her hand, tracing the lines of blood vessels, feeling the pattern of muscles beneath the skin. “Listen. Each individual is a marvel of construction. Every portion of this body, every cell, every nerve fiber, is part of an incredibly intricate pattern imprinted on each strand of DNA. It makes even COM look like a child's toy.”

Teresa frowned, trying to understand.

Arthur continued. “And I believe the soul is an intimate part of the body, part of the overall pattern, designed as a perfect match for the complex machine. How could I just swap my soul into someone else's shape, a physique that was never tailor-made to hold it?”

Though she felt rejected, Teresa still experienced the swelling debt inside, could think only of how she had managed to please Rhys during the good times. “Oh, Arthur, I've got to thank you in some way. If you don't want to swap . . . then why don't you let me make love to you? Let me share my body in a different way?” An automated cart rolled by and, unnoticed, snatched their dirty plates.

The old man looked at her in astonishment, then he chuckled to himself and smiled wistfully at her. “Teresa, I am flattered—and sorely tempted. But the fact that you're
listening
to me already means more than anything else you could ever do.”

Disappointed, she forced herself to smile at him so he wouldn't see her hurt feelings. Then she got an idea, and her smile became real. “Arthur, come with me. I want to show you something. I think you'll enjoy it.”

Garth's small apartment was much too crowded to serve as both living quarters and a functional studio, so he had relegated his sleeping area to a small corner and used the rest of the space for his art.

When Teresa brought Arthur to his door, Garth welcomed them with delight and made room. “Teresa! Please come inside—” He almost tripped over a stack of boxes filled with a clutter of supplies. “Or maybe we should go out somewhere? Who is your friend?” His open expression showed no judgment or disappointment at the old man's shabby appearance.

She hugged the broad-shouldered artist. “This is Arthur, someone I like to talk with. I wanted to bring him here so he could look at your sketches and paintings.”

Garth shook Arthur's hand. “Especially your portrait spectrum, I'll bet.”

Teresa flushed, which made her look even more waifish. “I think he'd find it interesting. He's only known me in this body.”

The artist did his best to show them around. “Forgive the mess, but I'm starting to pack. Thanks to Mr. Ob, I have enough credits to move into a larger place, where I can have a room to sleep
and
a room to work. I'm also looking to hire an assistant to help me keep track of all the details.”

Teresa chuckled. “No excuses, Garth. It's always looked this cluttered.”

Curious, Arthur poked through the piles of sketches, the paintings leaned against the walls. “I like that you use your eyes to see things around you, and pay attention to what other people never notice.”

“Ah, but lately I'm trying to see with more than just my eyes. I'm starting to experience all the facets of humanity.” With a sparkling expression, Garth described his List, so enthusiastic with the possibilities that he didn't even see the disturbed look on Arthur's face.

Teresa took the old man by the arm and led him through the obstacle course on the floor to a sequence of faces Garth had hung on the wall. She felt a lump in her throat to see that he had given her portrait spectrum prominence in the precious space he had available.

Arthur looked at the faces, an arrangement of people that seemed to have nothing in common with each other, male and female, beautiful and plain, beginning with the long-lost home-body Teresa had worn in the Falling Leaves, through many of the permutations Rhys had forced her to wear among the Sharetakers, finally to her large-eyed and waifish look.

Arthur studied them, looked into the eyes, the expressions. “They're all you, aren't they, Teresa?”

“Yes, they're all me . . . but still
me.
Garth found a way to capture that.” The artist smiled at her.

Arthur stared for a long time. “What I see is a lost soul.”

“Maybe,” Teresa said, then in a much smaller voice, “but I'm not sure that has anything to do with which body I was in.”

Arthur didn't seem convinced.