Hopscotch

by Kevin Anderson

  “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.

  33

  With his extensive List in hand, Garth advertised for an assistant who could help him manage the massive undertaking. He needed someone to be his lawyer and administrator, and mother, if necessary. After his near-disaster with the obese body-snatcher, Garth didn't dare attempt this alone. He had a big, creative heart, but not much of a business head.

  From the COM terminal in his small studio, Garth exchanged messages with a few halfhearted hopefuls who showed minimal interest in his quest and no real background in art. Since he couldn't pay much, even with Mordecai Ob's stipend, his ad attracted little attention.

  Finally, he did receive a message from someone who seemed sincerely glad for the opportunity to work with an aspiring artist, Garth in particular. The letter sounded interesting and mysterious, and the applicant said he preferred to make his case in person, if Garth would give him the chance. Intrigued, Garth arranged to meet him in a nearby espresso bar. The applicant readily agreed, claiming to be a connoisseur of fine coffees. Another good sign.

  As he sat at a metal-mesh patio table, Garth sipped from a wide cup of foamy, cinnamon-dusted cappuccino. When a gaunt, fidgety man came up to him, exactly on time, Garth blinked in surprise. “Pashnak!”

  The gaunt man flushed as Garth sprang to his feet so quickly that the metal chair screeched backward on the patio stones. “I still have your sketch of the Artful Dodger,” Pashnak said, embarrassed. “I even took the time to frame it, though it cost me a week's pay.”

  Surprised and delighted, Garth didn't know what else to say. Taking a deep breath, Pashnak looked up to meet his blue gaze. “I'd really love to work for you. I've been cleaning fountains for the past six months, can't get a better job. And I decided that if I'm not going to be paid well, I may as well put in my best work for something I believe in. And ever since the Falling Leaves, I've believed in you.”

  Garth grinned, embarrassed at the man's intensity of emotion. “My career is still nothing to brag about, even with Mr. Ob's support.”

  “But it will be.” Pashnak ordered his own cappuccino and looked at the artist with an admiration that Garth felt sure he didn't deserve. “Especially if I help you. I know I can make a difference.”

  Garth decided on the spot to hire the man.

  While they talked, he hauled out his datapad, leaning across the table so his new assistant could see. He keyed up a file to display a long, scrolling table. “This is my List. These are all the things I need to do with myself.”

  Pashnak read down the column, his eyes growing wide. “We've got a lot of work ahead of us.”

  Inside Garth's new, larger studio apartment, they waited for the old crone to arrive. Pashnak had already screened her personal file in the COM database, checked out everything about her. She seemed to be exactly what she claimed: a tired old woman who had lived a harsh life. She had no idea why an artist would call her to his studio.

  Before the old woman knocked on the door, Pashnak came out of the kitchen carrying two mugs of gourmet coffee. He had brewed it fresh and strong from a machine Garth had just purchased.

  “You don't need to do that for me,” Garth said.

  “I wouldn't trust anyone else to brew my coffee . . . or yours.” Good coffee was as much his passion as were the works of Charles Dickens. Sometimes Garth and Pashnak spent so many hours talking about their common interests that Garth wondered if he would ever get any painting done.

  Without a second thought, Pashnak checked details, kep
t track of activities, planned ahead for simple daily routines. The high-strung young man was shy and uncertain of himself, but he clearly loved being a part of Garth's work. Pashnak would never have had the nerve to push himself forward to meet the public, to put his creativity on display the way Garth did. He feared failure—but feared Garth's failure even more, and wanted to do everything to prevent that from happening.

  In short, Pashnak was a superb assistant.

  Pashnak sat with his steaming cup and looked at his watch. The assistant couldn't remain still for long, intimidated by silence and relaxation. “Okay, we've got to discuss some details before she arrives.”

  “Sure. I know what I need to feel and need to encounter. When I'm in the old woman's body I want to go down to the market, talk to some people, see how they react to me in an aged and poor-looking body. Plus, I want to mark how my arms feel, how my muscles are—”

  “I don't mean those things.” Pashnak sipped his coffee and stood up to pace the room. “We need to protect you from legal problems. Using the sample contract Daragon gave you, I've already drawn up terms and conditions for the old woman, and I can't see any loopholes. We'll use the document as our boilerplate from now on.”

  Garth read the terms. They all looked fine to him.

  “In addition, from this point on, I insist that you register each hopscotch. We've got to make it a public record, so that if anything goes wrong, there's no question about your real identity, when and where the exchange took place, et cetera. ID patches notwithstanding.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Just doing my job.” He was owlish and detail-oriented, meticulous to the point of being anal retentive—just the type of counterpart Garth needed.

  Finally the old woman arrived, baffled at what Garth could possibly want with her. “This better not be a joke.” Her voice was brittle, but her eyes were bright and strong, daring them to take advantage of her. The light struck her face, highlighting her wrinkled skin, the bent posture, the gray hair. Marvelous.

  Pashnak escorted her to the sofa, pouring her a cup of coffee, as well. As the assistant laid out the terms and explanations, Garth studied her externally, noting how she chose to dress, how she held herself. In his mind's eye, he imagined her as a younger woman, finding echoes of the beauty she exhibited in youth. Though much had changed for this old person, he could see the younger years buried in her face, in her body.

  Pashnak established a set time period for Garth to inhabit the old woman's body, then recorded the contract in COM. “Don't try to do anything illegal while you're in my client's home-body.”

  She chuckled. “It's like Cinderella having to be back by midnight before the spell wears off.” She smiled with wrinkled lips. “But I do think I'll have time for a good spicy meal and a long and refreshing walk.”

  “You do that.” Garth squeezed her shoulder. “Enjoy yourself.”

  Before Pashnak could think of other pressing concerns, Garth hopscotched into the old woman's body. She laughed with delight, a deep and gratifying sound instead of a scratchy and suspicious cackle. Pashnak watched nervously as she departed from the studio in the young and energetic form.

  Garth, though, was captivated by his new/old body. He flexed his arthritic hands, walking slowly about. His feet seemed distant and wooden, his worn-out joints and fragile bones ached. “This is just what I needed.”

  With Pashnak nervously in attendance, Garth set out to experience being old. Picking up the electronic datapad, the assistant followed him around the studio, then finally—slowly—down the stairs and into the streets. Garth had places to go, plans to make, prejudices to test.

  “Stay with me, Pashnak—but don't get in the way. I have to get the pure impressions. My eyesight isn't very strong.”

  “I should be recording your comments, Garth. Tell me what to jot down. I can keep notes to help you chronicle the sensations you're feeling.”

  Garth looked at him through age-bleared eyes. “Notes are fine, but I need to capture it here first.” He rapped a gnarled fist against the center of his chest. “In my heart. That's the only place it'll do me any good anyway.”

  34

  Outside the window, the gardener's trowel chopped, chopped, chopped. Each blow pounded like thunder through Eduard's splitting skull, as if he had the mother of all hangovers.

  He tossed and turned on the bed, feeling every one of his aching muscles. Even the afternoon sunlight hurt his eyes, piercing his pupils like tiny spears. Mordecai Ob had returned at midday demanding to switch back to his own form, and now Eduard felt so bad he had no choice but to take a nap to sleep off whatever Ob had done to his body.

  Tanu worked in the flowerbed under his window. Just weeding. He might as well have been using a jackhammer.

  Groaning, Eduard stared at the ceiling for several minutes before he could finally stand up, fighting the wave of nausea. His ears rang, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. No, it couldn't just be a hangover. He must be sick, afflicted with some kind of drawn-out flu. The illness seemed to have been coming on for weeks now.

  He had already run a viral and bacteriological scan on himself to see if he was getting sick, but he had found no infections of any kind. And this didn't have the same feel as the severe illnesses he had endured earlier in his career. Of course, nothing approached that level of misery.

  Lately, Ob often seemed annoyed or dismissive when he saw Eduard. He had to tread lightly. He didn't want to lose his job, not for himself and not for Daragon's sake. His friend had done this for him, put his own reputation on the line with his boss. Eduard bit back his complaints. He could imagine plenty of worse things.

  He remembered the days of selling his body, enduring all kinds of agony just for a few credits. By comparison with Madame Ruxton, this wasn't so bad. He would get through it, too. He just wanted to know what the problem was; then he could put it out of his mind. No problem.

  Eduard staggered over to the window and shifted the polarized curtain film. Below, Tanu worked shirtless in a petunia bed. The gardener bent over, sweat trickling like oil down his bronzed back. He dug up old flowers, making room for the new flats of hyper-phlox stacked on the lawn near the walkway.

  Sensing Eduard's scrutiny, Tanu looked up, blinking in the afternoon sunshine. Eduard stared through the window, seeing his ghost reflection and noting the surprise on the gardener's face, as well. His own eyes were sunken and shadowed with pain, his cheeks gaunt. He tried to find a glimmer of humor. “Hey, I didn't know working with flowers could be so loud.”

  Tanu looked at him, then hung his head. He set down the trowel and gathered an armful of uprooted petunias, looking like a large child embracing a Christmas tree.

  Eduard leaned out the window, but the smell of the fresh air and dirt made him queasy. As if fleeing, the Samoan gardener trudged away toward a mulch-processing enclosure.

  “Hey, Tanu!” The desperate sound in Eduard's voice must have struck a chord, because the gardener slowly turned. “What happened to Ob's other physical trainers? Why did they quit this job?”

  The Samoan shook his head. The rustling petunias quivered in his arms.

  “At least tell me who the last one was. What was his name?”

  “Sandor, his name was Sandor Perun. But he never took the time to talk to me like you do.” Intent on his gardening, Tanu refused to give further details.

  At least now Eduard had a name to track down, a place to start. Maybe he could talk to this Sandor Perun. He took several potent painkillers left over from Teresa's recovery, stood under a gushing hot shower, and finally felt refreshed enough to tackle his questions at a COM terminal while the Chief was away at BTL Headquarters.

  On the interactive filmscreen he searched through a jungle of data, trying to track down Mordecai Ob's previous body-caretakers. Any information about BTL business was naturally restricted, but the workings of a private estate should be subject to the same COM-accessibility requirements as any other piece of public inform
ation.

  Sandor Perun. Eduard found a subset of data behind several pseudonyms and translucent filenames, but he could find no record of Perun's current status, where he lived. Next, backtracking through the man's name, he bumped into the relevant fields of employment at Ob's estate, searching for hiring histories.

  He uncovered previous employment listings—his own file, first, and then Sandor Perun, a thin man with a bushy dark mustache. But there had also been two others: Janine Kuritz, and before her, Benjamin Padwa.

  At that point, their files grew thin. Eduard's brow furrowed with suspicion and concern. When he tried to uncover details about the former employees, he found no further record. No information at all. COM had no listings of what they had done after leaving service here.

  Trying numerous tactics, Eduard hacked away, approaching the names from the rear, using any peripheral connection . . . with little success. Even their medical records had been entirely cleansed.

  He supposed a person could live on the fringes of society, avoid using the computer/organic matrix—just like the immortal Phantoms he had once wanted to emulate—though that seemed highly unlikely. Where were they?

  Didn't it make more sense that the head of the Bureau of Tracing and Locations could also make people disappear?

  He didn't know how long it would be until Ob returned home. Uneasy, his fingers stabbing at the keys like knives, Eduard erased his search.

  Suddenly everything about this too-good-to-be-true job, everything about this estate, seemed like a trap. He dared not trust anyone but himself until he found some answers. Not even Daragon.

  35

  Months passed in a heady waterfall of artistic experiences. Garth journeyed through the spectrum of human life, from power to weakness, glamour to pain. He checked off each item on the List, like an explorer planting a flag.

  Garth became a weight lifter, then a gymnast. He spent a day being blind, and then deaf. He lived half-paralyzed by a stroke, his mind trapped within the prison of an uncooperative body. He experienced perceptions through the brain of a schizophrenic as if it were a cracked mirror. He jogged for three miles in the body of a runner and never tired.