Hopscotch

by Kevin Anderson

  “They'll make him one of their own.” The monk's once clear blue eyes now looked cloudy and old. “He was our ransom, and we . . . sold him. I couldn't think of any other way to save the monastery.”

  Teresa touched the monk's wrist, below her ID patch. “What do you mean?”

  “The BTL wanted to oust us so they could have a headquarters on the mainland. Chocolate tried everything, but we were going to be evicted. Eminent domain, a ‘greater societal need.' The Splinters had no way to challenge them.” She looked Teresa directly in the eye. “Until I discovered what Daragon could do—and how much the BTL was likely to want it. So they made a deal with us. We now have our title, free and clear. Daragon was worth more to them than the Falling Leaves.”

  One of the candles flickered, as if a ghost had just walked by.

  “The Beetles see COM as a sweatshop of souls, rather than a congregation of blessed lives, as we do.” Soft Stone shook her head. Gray bristles had begun to poke out of her smooth scalp.

  Teresa shifted her position. “I think it would be terrible never to swap with anyone, to experience only your own life and nobody else's. I'm so sorry for Daragon.”

  “Not just that, little Swan. His soul is anchored, unable to separate from his body. What if that means he is unable to move on in the Wheel of Life? Did I fail him?” Soft Stone's body surrendered to wracking sobs.

  Teresa had no answer for her.

  Two days later a pale and stoic Soft Stone went to see Administrator Chocolate. The community of other presences inside COM beckoned to her. She had searched her mind and soul and come to a decision.

  “I can hear their whispers behind the glimmering phosphors on the interactive screens.” Soft Stone repeated her well-rehearsed words, as if they were a poem. “I can see glimpses of nirvana within the vast thinking sea. I want to be part of it, join those myriad others. I will drink the wine of knowledge, bathe in the milk of unending community.”

  Behind his desk, Chocolate drummed his pudgy fingers on a desktop. “I cannot refuse your request, though it saddens me deeply.”

  “We should view this as a time of celebration, Chocolate. You of all people must treat it that way. You must believe in what COM offers to us all.”

  The administrator remained flustered. “But, is your work here done?”

  “It will never be done. But I am done with the doing.” She turned to leave the office and said with finality, “I intend to upload myself tomorrow at noon.”

  The following day they all gathered in the library/ database room, Splinter monks as well as their charges of all ages. Some sniffled and looked sad, a few whispered, others blinked with wonder and anticipation. Teresa didn't know what to feel. After the recent loss of Daragon, too many things were changing. Soon, Soft Stone was going to vanish, willingly uploading her soul into the vast computer matrix that was COM.

  Since humans could swap from body to body at will, and because COM was organic and multilayered, it was possible through hardware and uplink cables to hopscotch into the network itself. Soft Stone would transfer her consciousness into the labyrinth of data, leaving her body behind, empty and lifeless.

  Incense burned, pine needles and cloves—Soft Stone's favorite mixture. Candles sparkled next to the glowing data terminals, adding a warm light like starshine. Teresa tugged at Garth's arm, pulling him and Eduard forward so they could stand at the front of the crowd. Tears brimmed in her eyes.

  Soft Stone emerged from the rear of the library, passing between her favorite paintings and sculptures. A hush fell on the gathered crowd. Barefoot, the lean woman walked with grace and confidence, shoulders squared, chin high. Her sky-blue robes were adorned with brass bangles that tinkled as she moved. Her newly shaved scalp glistened as if she had waxed it.

  She walked toward the main interlinks in the center of the library. She reached out to brush the hands of her students in a benediction. The old monk paused in front of Teresa, Garth, and Eduard, and suddenly her expression crumpled. “It's not dying. It is living on a higher level. A much higher level.” She reached out to enfold the three friends in a deep hug. “I'll try to watch over you. Remember, COM has eyes everywhere, and I will be part of COM.”

  She kissed Chocolate on both cheeks, and the beatific smile on the administrator's chubby face flickered for just an instant. Then he backed away, leaving her alone with the computer network.

  Soft Stone reached out with callused hands to touch the inputs. All other monitors in the library chamber flared to life. Three-dimensional interactive portals painted an artificial sky with fluffy white clouds on the ceiling of the library. The monk closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.

  Living lights swirled like comets along the walls. Chimes sounded in the virtual distance, a resonance that hummed in Teresa's bones. She wondered how much was real, how much miraculous . . . and how much was staged.

  Soft Stone's trembling fingers tapped the edges of the milky screens. Then the scenes changed, crackling images replaced by a different construct. The library was transformed into a great vault, an immense cathedral far larger than the monastery building, with stained-glass windows and a thousand different passages. Her mind could spend eternity in here, wandering among all knowledge, all recorded history.

  As Soft Stone's brow wrinkled with concentration, she mentally connected herself to COM and prepared to upload her soul. Surrounded by the illusion, the others in the room held their breath. The behind-the-mind music was like crystal; the light was like gemstones.

  Glowing images appeared in the air, luminous beings that swirled like angels come to greet her. She raised her hands, then her eyes. The escort presences engulfed her like a safe cocoon, and a shadow of Soft Stone floated with them, younger and stronger. The spirits vanished into the unexplored stained-glass passageways, and the old monk left her body behind forever.

  Then the images faded, and the library came into focus again. Soft Stone's body slumped to the library floor, an empty husk.

  Teresa stood in the candlelit room, feeling cold and alone even with her friends Garth and Eduard beside her. Chocolate knelt next to Soft Stone's body, cradling her bald head in his hands.

  Garth was awed by the beauty of it. “Someday I'll make something that beautiful, something as moving as what we just saw.”

  Teresa wept, never expecting to see Soft Stone again. . . .

  Now, grown-up and on her own, Teresa found her thoughts wandering through the droning monotony of her workday. This wasn't what Soft Stone had wanted Teresa to do with her life, with her philosophical inquisitiveness. She felt lost and discouraged, wasting her time on this pointless job.

  Then the data matrices displayed on her screen blurred and went out of focus . . . and Teresa thought she saw an image, the ghost of a human form. A woman's bald head, blunt features, and clear blue eyes stared straight out of the information matrix. At her.

  Soft Stone!

  Startled, Teresa sat straight, but stopped herself from calling a coworker over. She leaned closer to the barrier of the screen, her heart pounding. Her throat went dry. “Hello?”

  From behind the milky wall of the network, the bald woman's image smiled at her—then flickered and vanished, like a fish going back underwater, to be replaced by swirling data again.

  Teresa saw nothing, no lingering shadow of the apparition. What did it mean? Clusters of numbers floated before her, shifting patterns that held no significance.

  Like this useless job, an irrelevant rearrangement and secondary interpretation of information. It was a waste of her time, a waste of her life and abilities. Soft Stone must be so disappointed in her.

  Angry at herself, Teresa dumped the numbers and spent the rest of her workday searching along her own paths, finding the works of great philosophers, studying thought-provoking passages. This was what she wanted to do.

  Ignoring the assignment her employers had given her, she found new postulates, random expressions posted by more recent thinkers who considered themsel
ves great sages. Sometimes the concepts were moving and timeless; some postings were mere drivel, typo-filled rantings that the would-be philosophers hadn't even bothered to proofread.

  Engrossed in the search for meaning, Teresa occupied herself for hours. It was just like what she had enjoyed so much in the Falling Leaves library. . . .

  Unfortunately, her employers did not appreciate her new passion, and Teresa didn't manage to keep that particular job very long.

  7

  Eduard's first regular job outside of the Falling Leaves had been high up on the outside of the mirrored skyscrapers. Wearing a mag-lock harness that attached him to support struts between windows, he hung far above the pavement. The swirling crowds and hovervehicles far below looked like colored pixels on a grid of the city.

  Having fun, Eduard spent his days with a repair kit, zipping up and down one structure after another, sealing windows, patching cracks, strengthening blocks that showed signs of wear. Dangling so high made him feel alive, in stark contrast with his safe and calm childhood. For a while, he had felt happy and fulfilled . . . until his restlessness kicked in again.

  His work partner, a lanky and unambitious man named Olaf Pitervald, had big-knuckled hands and scarecrowish arms and legs. His freckled skin flushed easily, and his pale hair was a colorless mass that covered his pink scalp. He had worked this job for years and never planned to change.

  By himself, Eduard could cover the side of a skyscraper faster than the two of them could do it together, but Olaf liked to hang beside him in his harness. The lanky man spent more time in conversation than actually doing his job. “We get paid the same, no matter how hard we work.”

  While Eduard diligently used his polysteel compound to patch chinks, Olaf would spy through the windows, hoping to catch sight of attractive female bodies. Safely anonymous, he made catcalls, emboldened because he knew the women could never hear his words through the glass. He was single, probably because he'd never found the nerve to date.

  Olaf pushed his face close to the glass, where a buxom teal-haired woman sat in a lobby area directing visitors. “How do you like that one, eh?”

  Eduard had no idea whether a woman or a man inhabited the receptionist's body. Some corporations simply rented sexy female bodies to act as living artwork in the reception areas; then they hired pleasant and competent employees to swap into those beautiful bodies during the workday. Before important meetings, some executives might even hopscotch with their secretaries, always careful to hide their ID patches, so they could eavesdrop on what their business partners might say before negotiations began. . . .

  Suspended in his harness, Olaf loved to leer, letting his imagination run wild. Eduard laughed at his ineffectual work partner. “So save up your credits, rent yourself the body of a stud, and go date one of those women.” Olaf balked. He was stingy with his money and preferred imaginary conquests to risking actual failure. With a bemused smile, Eduard went back to work.

  One day Olaf had hung in his harness next to Eduard and didn't seem to want to talk, offering only occasional surly comments. Finally, Eduard said, “Either tell me what's wrong or leave me alone.”

  “Facial surgery. Dental prosthetics. I have to get three teeth replaced.” Grasping the harness with the crook of his arm, Olaf jabbed his fingers along his left jawline. “In here. They're going to laser-cut some molars and install organic prosthetics. Too much enamel damage, easier to replace than to fix.”

  “So?”

  Olaf fretted in the harness. “I don't like the idea of somebody cutting up my mouth . . . taking pieces of me out.”

  To Eduard, minor surgery didn't seem a terribly pleasant prospect, but nothing to be terrified about. “Are you worried about the operation itself? Or is it that you just don't want to be there when it's happening?”

  Olaf moaned. “I want it to be all over with, and not have to sit through it and feel what they're doing to me. What if it . . . hurts?”

  Eduard looked over at his partner as they both swung high, high above the streets. He began to smile as an idea crystallized in his mind. “Hey, how many spare credits do you have?”

  Olaf looked suspicious. “You need a loan, eh? I don't lend money.”

  “As a payment. You pay me, and I'll swap with you. I'll sit through your dental surgery for you. No fear, no pain. You won't feel a thing.”

  Olaf stuttered, swinging in the harness. “I don't think so. I couldn't ask that of you. . . . Uh, how much would I need to pay?”

  “A thousand credits,” Eduard said, making up the number.

  “What? I can't afford that!”

  “Yes you can. Besides, if you swap into my body, you don't need to miss a day of work. I'll do it for you. No problem.”

  Olaf looked sorely tempted, but torn. Eduard found this amusing and said in a teasing tone, “Hey, maybe you'd rather sit there all alone while they go into your mouth with their lasers, chopping up your teeth, ripping them out. Have you ever smelled burning blood? Smoke drifting from your mouth and into your nose?”

  “I can spare you five hundred. That should be enough. It's only going to be a few hours.”

  “For five hundred, you can put up with it for a few hours. Or, for nine hundred, you won't have to feel a thing until it's all over.” He flashed a winning smile.

  Sweat broke out on Olaf's brow despite the cool breezes. In Olaf's bleary eyes Eduard could see that the other man desperately wanted to make the deal, and Eduard refused to haggle further. Nine hundred credits. Finally Olaf agreed.

  The next morning, Eduard swapped with him, spent the afternoon in a stainless-steel polished office with all the high-tech surgery necessities: anesthetics, quiet music, scent-synthesizers that masked medicinal odors, and a competent dental surgeon with robotic assistants. It wasn't so bad.

  When it was over, after he'd been paid and they hopscotched back into their home-bodies, Eduard didn't have the heart to tell Olaf that he hadn't felt a thing. The nerve deadeners had worked perfectly, the surgery went exactly as planned, and Olaf still had to endure the miserable throbbing pain as his body healed. . . .

  Afterward, Eduard realized the possibilities. He went by himself to Club Masquerade and stared at the complex Swapportunities Board, reading down the want ads, the requests for alternate bodies or partners.

  Eduard simply listed himself and his services, and word got around.

  8

  Daragon had not set foot on the mainland in six months. The Bureau and its concerns had become his life, twenty-four hours a day, with every breath, waking or sleeping. He immersed himself in the databases, studying old cases, absorbed in the nuances of law enforcement.

  Once humans had learned how to hopscotch, many new legal definitions and precedents needed to be set. The law stated that the “perpetrator” of a crime was the mind rather than the body. Investigations and prosecutions involved the person that had been inside a human vehicle when a felony was committed, backtracking the identity through COM or ID patches or sheer detective work.

  It was difficult to track someone who did not wish to be found, but a person's mind left distinctive pathways on a host brain, much as a body itself was marked by its unique retinal pattern—or fingerprints. Unfortunately, such mental identification methods were time-consuming and excruciatingly painful for the suspect body, which more often than not turned out to be innocent.

  Bureau Chief Ob had high hopes for Daragon, who could see the identities of people. Knowing the person to look for, he could find a guilty party at a glance, no matter which body the suspect wore.

  “We've survived for over two centuries now on the sharpest razor edge human civilization has ever encountered,” Ob said during a conversation in his underwater office. “You've lived with the idea of swapping all your life, Daragon, so you don't see what a ticking time bomb it really is. Think of the opportunities for total upheaval, the lack of individualism as we have always known it. Without a ready and reliable means for identification of a ‘person
,' society would crumble into chaos. The sheer potential for abuse boggles the mind.”

  “Yes, sir. That is why the BTL is so important.” The expected answer. “But every person has an implanted ID patch.”

  Ob tapped his fingertips together. “Useful only if people voluntarily synch after swapping. We each have our identity code, which we are supposed to carry with us, no matter what body we inhabit. After I hopscotch with someone, we are required—by law—to update our patches, so that my new body carries the correct ID. Most people do it without thinking.”

  Daragon pretended to understand. “I can't imagine a situation where both parties would forget, considering the consequences.”

  Ob ran his fingertip over the rectangle of polymer film on the back of his hand. “That's why the penalties are so severe for anyone caught with an identity that hasn't been updated. The Bureau is completely justified in cracking down. We dare not allow the public to discover that they can get away with fooling us.”

  “Yes, sir, that would be dangerous.”

  Ob got up to stare at his gas fireplace. Fish swam overhead. “And the people want it, too, don't you see? They understand the precipice we're on. The human race has managed to keep its balance by not allowing this potential to run rampant. Luckily, most people choose not to hopscotch very often. They find it disorienting or uncomfortable. They return to their home-bodies and live their lives in the body nature gave them.”

  “Still, it seems impossible to control, sir, considering all the potential.”

  Ob smiled as if Daragon had finally reached some sort of breakthrough. “Absolutely impossible. But that doesn't prevent the Bureau from fostering the impression. Think of art—sometimes subtle strokes accomplish more, have a greater impact, than blatant messages.”

  The Bureau Chief was like a father to Daragon, who had never known one. Daragon wondered if one day he'd be able to find out the identity of his biological parents. Perhaps he could use the resources of the BTL to do it. . . .