12
“Don't forget, Daragon, we're not just police.” Mordecai Ob raised the COM screen on his desk and punched in a request. “The Bureau of Tracing and Locations finds missing people, uncovers the identity of parents or their children.” He printed out the results, handing the hardcopy to Daragon with an expectant smile. “Since you want to do something so badly, let me give you your first official Bureau assignment. You're ready for it.”
Daragon flushed with pride as he took the paper and scanned the words.
“You need to track down a lost family member. This woman needs a vital medical treatment, something that can only be cured through parallel DNA-matching therapy. And that can only be done if she finds the home-body of her brother. Unfortunately, he hopscotched out of his original body long ago in a long-term lease, which was transferred to another person, who died outside of the swapped body. Through a record-keeping snafu, the sibling's body then went onto the open market for permanent sale.”
Daragon read the particulars, making a special effort not to smile or frown or show any sort of emotion whatsoever. That would have been bad form.
“Thus, the family needs to recover the brother's lost home-body. It's a matter of life and death, and they came to the BTL for help. The brother himself has kept in touch, but he's hopscotched from one body to another as he took job after job. The sister needs the original body to do her any good.”
Daragon folded the printout and stuffed it into one of his pockets. “I'll find him for you, sir.”
“Don't find the body for me,” Ob said. “Do it for them.”
Daragon ran into dead ends at every turn, no doubt exactly as the Chief had anticipated. But he'd given his word, and he refused to abandon the quest so easily. He would not disappoint the man who had helped him so much.
In windowless chambers filled with bubbling coolants and life-support systems, the Bureau's mutated Data Hunters hung in limbo, living a surreal life with virtual bodies, lost inside the computer/organic matrix. Daragon went into the airlocked chambers and stood inside the dank-smelling room.
As his eyes adjusted, he gazed up at where hairless, stunted bodies hung suspended in harnesses, wired to the vast cosmos of COM. Data Hunters looked like hideous embryos with flaccid arms that had atrophied through lack of use. Their spines were curved, their heads overlarge, their eyes blind, seeing only through neural inputs that linked them into the sea of information.
He waited in silence, not certain of the protocol he was supposed to follow, until finally he said in a loud, firm voice, “I need some help.” Bubbles continued to jet into the coolant and recirculation tubes. He saw no motion, no reaction.
One of the embryos drifted in its floating restraints and turned a sightless face toward him. A voice that oozed sarcasm came out of a small speaker on the far side of the room. “Ahh, somebody's come to give my life purpose! What is it you seek? Wait, forgive my lack of social graces . . . we get no practice in here.” The body stirred as if a breeze had wafted through the room. Now, the voice came from a different place, closer to the floating creature. “My name is Jax, and you must introduce yourself properly before you make a request. I'm not just a genie in a bottle who's required to give you three wishes, you know.”
Daragon had anticipated Data Hunters to be alien and incomprehensible, not talkative. “My name is Daragon. I need to find someone in order to help a person who requires medical treatment. Can I call your attention to a case file?”
“Ah, a humanitarian gesture. How wonderful!”
He punched in the file, and the hovering Data Hunter scanned it in a millisecond. “Ahh, it'll keep me occupied for a while,” Jax said through the speaker. “That's what we're here for, after all. But first, you must promise to meet my payment request.”
Not knowing what to say, Daragon smoothed his trainee Inspector uniform. “But you work for the Bureau. We're part of the same team.”
Jax's body did not stir, but the voice coming from the speaker had an interesting lilt. “We all have our price. Do you want me to help you or not?”
Daragon sighed. “All right, then. What is your price?”
“I want you to come and talk to me. We don't get much company, and I can find anything else I need through COM. But the network can't provide plain, faulty human companionship.”
“If that's all you want, then I agree to your terms.”
“Good. Come back in an hour and I'll have the information you need. After you use the information, I want you to come and tell me what you did.”
Daragon tracked down the business offices of the person who now owned the brother's original home-body. The current inhabitant was a public relations specialist who dealt with celebrities. His name was Stradley, and he called himself a “hype-meister.”
As Daragon waited in Stradley's lobby, he tried to appear properly ominous in his clean BTL uniform. He glanced at the receptionist, who shrugged toward the door where Stradley sat “in consultation” with one of his clients.
Finally, the exuberant hype-meister burst out of his office wearing a grin, and Daragon immediately recognized the missing brother's home-body from the file images. Stradley's false smile transformed into a scowl. “So, what does a Beetle want in my office? You guys certainly don't need my help with publicity. Of course, the Bureau could use a bit more favorable coverage.”
Daragon didn't rise to the bait. “That's not why I'm here, sir.”
Stradley crossed his arms over his chest. The hype-meister wasn't taking good care of his physique. His neck and face seemed slack, a bit jowly, and he had begun to grow a potbelly. The eyes were bloodshot, the movements frenetic, as if he sampled too many stimulants. Daragon hoped the body remained in good enough condition for the necessary medical treatment.
“State your purpose, then. I'm a busy man and I command high hourly rates. I'll start charging if you waste my time.” Daragon wondered how the man would ever get a bill through the BTL's bureaucratic accounting systems, but he did not press the matter.
“We've come for your body, sir. Someone needs the loan of it—the sister of its original owner.”
The hype-meister narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out Daragon's angle. “Say again? Why on earth is the BTL messing around with personal problems? Is she your mistress, maybe?”
“She needs DNA-matching therapy. Your body is the only one they can use for the procedure. You have the appropriate genes, and they need to extract some samples.”
“Not from my body they won't.” Stradley raised his arms. “I've got a burgeoning business here. Check your records—this is my body now. I acquired it free and clear, permanent lease, a year and a half ago. And even then, that wasn't from its original owner. This body has been bounced and bounced. Who knows how many other people have lived inside it?”
“Mr. Stradley.” Daragon tried again. “The only thing I care about is who presently owns the body. That is you. You have the precise genetic match required. Can you find it in your heart to save someone's life?”
“I need this body. I use it every day. I can't find it in my heart to give up what I'm doing here to endure any excruciating medical work. I've heard about this kind of treatment.” Stradley made no move to invite him into the office.
Daragon mentally searched through what he had studied. The law remained murky in this area: Stradley was the legitimate current owner of that body, and even former family members couldn't force him to undergo a medical procedure he didn't want to have.
As an idea dawned, Daragon folded his hands in front of him. “Since you bought that body anyway, sir, and you've been in it for a year and a half, perhaps you would consider switching with someone else?”
“I can't afford a new body just at the drop of a hat—that's quite an investment. Besides, I'm working here.”
Daragon continued. “Perhaps, sir, I should put you in touch with the family. The parents and the sister may offer enough credits for a replacement body. A better one. That way you c
an be someone new, and they'll have access to the DNA they need, while you continue your work uninterrupted.”
Stradley blew air through his lips. “Might be acceptable. Okay, I could do that—as long as it's a trade up.”
Daragon nodded brusquely. “I won't take up any more of your time today, sir. I will provide the family with your contact information. I'm sure they'll be able to resolve this matter to your satisfaction.”
“No promises,” Stradley warned.
As he traveled back to BTL Headquarters, Daragon mulled over the different ways he could have handled the problem, but he could think of no better solution. He had done well, and he knew it. He would tell the Data Hunter Jax all about it, as he had promised.
Then, smiling, he decided to check up on Eduard, Garth, and Teresa. It had been so long since he'd seen them.
13
“While other people call these apartments,” Rhys said to Teresa, raising his arms to encompass the Sharetaker enclave, “we name them togetherments. In our philosophy we all come together and do not move apart.”
He flashed her a winning smile, and his words made her feel warm. Teresa had already spent days settling in, working hard to be part of the group. Under Rhys's ambitious leadership, the enclave had grown until it took over much of the building, combining separate domiciles into one interconnected hive.
As a new member, Teresa's daily labor involved ripping out walls and tearing down doors between rooms. The Sharetakers left only a framework of areas where people could sleep or cook or amuse themselves through conversation, games, or lovemaking.
The group insisted that everyone was equal, every body interchangeable; however, they recognized that some physical forms were better suited for certain purposes than others. Teresa hopscotched among the believers, from a tired body to a fresh one, just so she could work extra hours.
Rhys watched the labor and swapped bodies as often as anyone else. He even made a point of spending days inside Teresa's young and fresh female form, while she went about doing the harder tasks, using the muscles of people whose names she didn't even know.
Rhys had taken her as his lover almost immediately, and she had acquiesced, happy to be singled out. Even back in the monastery, the Splinters had been open about sex, seeing it as a rudimentary form of sharing bodies.
The first time, Rhys had embraced her with great intensity, hot and sweaty, breathing hard. His sexual technique, like his personality, was fiery and passionate, almost violent. When he had satisfied himself, he lay back, swapped with Teresa, and wanted to do it again as the opposite sex, but Rhys's male home-body was already spent, and Teresa couldn't perform for him.
She saw her own naked form, flushed from the recent exercise but wanting more. In her own voice, Rhys said, “Go find another one of the Sharetakers, a male, and swap with him. Then you can come back to finish what we started.”
Teresa was surprised at how easily she found a Sharetaker willing to do the job. She came back in another male form, but found it difficult to get herself aroused by her own naked body beneath her. But Rhys helped, using her fingers to fondle and knead until the strange male penis bounced erect. His actions bordered on impatience, until they made love again. . . .
Teresa recognized the sketch in the artists' bazaar before Garth recognized her. She had gone out to purchase supplies for the Sharetakers, and enjoyed her day away from the togetherments, out in the sunshine. Wearing the body of a tired, middle-aged woman, she detoured through the marketplace.
With an intent and wistful expression, the blond artist worked on his portrait, drawing the details vividly from his memory. The eyes were perfect, the short brown hair, the narrow chin, facial features showing more beauty than Teresa had ever known she possessed.
“Garth, that's me!” Her heart swelled.
He looked up, not placing her at first. “Teresa?” He lurched to his feet. “Teresa! Oh, how I've missed you!”
They hugged. “I wanted to see you, too, Garth, but I've been so busy with the Sharetakers, my new friends.” She told him all about Rhys and how she had been welcomed by the like-minded members of the community.
He asked her to sit across from him while they talked. He stared at her new features, effortlessly reproducing them on a new sheet of sketch paper. Teresa leaned forward to watch, amazed. Somehow, Garth managed to capture the look of the new woman, yet retained a compelling halo that made it intuitively obvious that the portraits showed the same person.
“What happened to your home-body, Teresa?”
Her shrug was a bit too quick and dismissive. “It's still at the togetherments. I can have it back whenever I need it.”
He lined up the two drawn faces, the lovingly detailed portrait of her original features and the quick study of her current body. “I'll clean this other one up later, mount them side by side.” His eyes flashed with a sudden idea. “You have to come see me whenever you change bodies. I can do a whole series of these, portrait after portrait. I'll call it The Spectrum of Teresa.”
She laughed, then blushed. “Oh, maybe not every time I hopscotch, Garth, because I don't know if Rhys would let me out that often.” Noticing the time, she squeezed his arm and stood to leave. “But it'll give me an excuse to come and see you.”
14
New sights, new sounds, new experiences. Whenever Garth scraped up a few extra credits, he tried an unusual restaurant with brand-new flavors and spices. Inspiration.
He'd sold one of his paintings today, a watercolor rendering of clouds drifting over the building tops. He had struck up a conversation with a middle-aged woman—actually an old matron who'd swapped bodies with her fortyish daughter for the day—and the lonely woman had talked with Garth for an hour, chatting about odds and ends in her life while he continued to sketch. Afterward, she'd bought a painting and taken it home with her groceries.
Garth decided to spend his unexpected windfall on a lavish dinner in a tantalizing and exotic Moroccan restaurant. Eduard was still in the hospital, recovering from his voluntary surgery-swap, but Garth wished he could afford to bring Teresa with him, at least. Instead, he had to enjoy the experience alone.
When he passed through the keyhole archway, the smells of mysterious spices wafted toward him, saffron, cumin, preserved lemons, cinnamon, and honey. With an artist's eye, he studied the tile mosaic embedded like a stone rug in the entryway.
A leathery-faced man with short dark hair tucked under a crimson fez greeted him. He wore a billowy brown-and-cream-striped djellaba, the pointed hood dangling between his shoulders. The man bowed and ushered him inside.
Strange, unmelodic music played from automatic synthesizers. The dining room was dim and voluminous, with cloth draped tentlike from the ceiling. Stuffed leather hassocks snuggled against tables barely high enough for Garth to fit his knees under them. A dozen other customers sat engrossed in their meals.
The waiter handed him a menu covered with Arabic scribbles and high prices. Garth couldn't understand a word of it, until he found a touch-spot on the corner, and the letters toggled from Arabic to French, English, German, Japanese, then around again. The waiter returned with a basin and an urn of warm water, which he sprinkled over Garth's hands to cleanse them. Garth wiped his fingers on a plush towel, then he draped it over his lap.
On his small sketchpad, he began to record labyrinthine calligraphy from the walls, stylized verses from the Koran, intricate geometries, marvelous mazes and curlicues. Garth wanted to incorporate them into his work.
The waiter offered Garth freshly baked flat bread, which he dipped into a small bowl of spicy lentil soup. At first he looked around for utensils, but the waiter explained that he must eat with his hands (most definitely not the way Soft Stone had taught him manners!).
Garth chose a sampler of chicken with onions and lemon, lamb with honey and almonds, and a piquant Moroccan stew. The lamb and chicken were delicious, seasoned unlike anything he had tasted before. When he used the bread to scoop out a mouthful
of the Moroccan stew, the spices nearly set his mouth on fire. He gasped, his eyes watering as he gulped his water then sucked on a lemon wedge.
Seeing his reaction, the waiter smiled at him. “But does it taste good, sir?”
Once the storm in his mouth died down, Garth paid attention to the flavors. “Yes. I am intensely surprised and satisfied with everything.”
When he finished his meal, the music from the wall speakers grew louder. Licking lemon and honey from his fingers, Garth leaned against the cushion to observe.
With a surge of sound, a beautiful woman glided through the dangling beads as if she were emerging from a waterfall. She was clad in bangles and artificial silks, her eyes heavy with makeup, her fingers clashing tiny cymbals. She then began to dance with the most lissome, flowing movement he had ever witnessed.
The dancer twirled, her hips oscillating; her mane of dark hair swung wildly, caught up in scarves. She began to remove the scarves one by one, holding them in her hands like peacock feathers. Her eyes sparkled, her scarlet lips parting as she gasped quick energetic breaths.
The belly dancer eased closer to the tables, stretching out her hands, beckoning for volunteers. The other patrons continued their own conversations. Garth's heart jolted. Although his initial reaction was to shy away, he had come here to experience. The dancer spun like an exotic ballerina, tapping her heel to her opposite shin, catching the enthusiasm in Garth's eye. She reached out to take his fingers and drew him to his feet. The other customers looked relieved that she had chosen a different victim.
Garth glided onto the floor, fascinated. Her skin was warm to the touch as she put her hands on his hips and demonstrated how to move. He watched her muscles, noted the sweat on her forehead and neck. She lived within the dance, her mind and body focused on whirling, following the music, swept along. He tried to dance the way she did, but his spine just wouldn't bend like that, and his hips didn't have the flexibility.
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