The echoing passageways were lit by harsh glow tiles not designed for the comfort of human eyes. The air smelled dank in the untraveled tunnels. Creatures stirred in the shadows, spiders and crickets and mice.
“I used to map and maintain the water systems inside this building, all seventy-eight stories of it.” Arthur moved with a spring in his step she had not seen before. He seemed to forget his aches and pains, his poor health. “It's good to revisit my old stomping grounds, especially with an eager pupil at my side.”
He rattled off statistics relating to the building, pointing out minute details she would never have noticed. He explained the intricate conduits, power connections, and overflow systems.
“I had a lot of time to myself down here. A lot of time to think. When I understood how this building worked, I realized how much it reminded me of the human body—structural supports like bones, plumbing like a circulatory system, electrical conduits like nerves, thermostats and optical sensors and alarm systems like our senses.” The old man lowered his voice. “But even the greatest networks inside the mightiest skyscrapers can't truly compare to the elegant complexity of the human body.”
Arthur held up his gnarled right hand. “I finally got it through my head that the fluid-flow pathways in my little finger, designed by the pressures of evolution or by God Himself, far surpass any system that centuries of human engineering has managed to construct. We're just . . . amateurs at this.”
He led her up a narrow metal staircase that paralleled an elevator shaft. Teresa listened to his labored breathing as he clomped higher and higher. With a humming rattle, an enclosed elevator car whisked past them and a counterweight shuttled upward in an opposite shaft.
Arthur rested on the steps. “When I found that discarded copy of Gray's Anatomy, it seemed like a sign. I abandoned my work and took to living as best I could on my own limited resources. I needed more time to study.”
Teresa held herself back, trying not to push him faster than he wanted to go, but Arthur climbed level after level, driven from within. “You must have made up your mind before then never to hopscotch.”
Arthur finally paused at a landing. “It'll take me a century just to understand this hunk of flesh. Why should I make the problem more difficult by stepping inside someone else's guts and muscles?” He inspected his scrawny bicep with renewed interest.
“But aren't you curious about other people? Their perspectives, their sensations?” Teresa had been in so many different physiques, so many men and women—strong and weak, beautiful and average. She had noticed a host of differences, but also an underlying sameness.
“Okay, I could be healthier, more energetic—but at whose expense? Every body has a given life span, like a warranty, and if I take good care of mine, maybe I can extend its service lifetime.” He shrugged. “Regardless, I'm satisfied with the body I was given at birth. No regrets.”
Later, Teresa helped him back out into the sunlight, away from the skyscraper's maintenance corridors. Arthur looked bone weary, his feet dragging and his shoulders slumped. The fresh air seemed to do him no good. He urged her to be off, to complete more deliveries for the day. “Go. I don't want you to get in trouble on my account.”
Teresa hugged him gently, afraid she might break his old body. “I'm worried about you, Arthur. You need to rest.”
He waved her off. “Okay, I'll take a nap. Don't worry—I'll be fine.”
She left him at the fountain, hurrying to pick up another load of bouquets for the afternoon deliveries. The old man was too tired to watch her go.
37
Still achy and dizzy, glad to be away from Mordecai Ob's mansion, Eduard made his way to Garth's big exhibition. He felt worse each day, and his mouth always tasted awful. But even if he'd been on his deathbed, Eduard would have found some way to make it to his friend's opening. He wouldn't have missed it even if he had to steal a body to get there.
FRUSTRATION. Now that was a familiar concept.
Accompanied by an immaculately uniformed Inspector Daragon Swan, the Bureau Chief had left his estate earlier for the show. Ob clearly wanted to keep a master/servant distance between himself and his body-caretaker, though, and suggested that Eduard find his own way. No problem.
He followed the huge signs and a swirl of people. Animated shooting stars and insistent arrows in the sidewalks guided pedestrians to the show. Ahead, under floating spotlights, Eduard saw the gallery building surrounded by a web of intersecting lasers that diffracted and sparkled through a dance of water-fans. Arches and cyber-Greek columns braced an ornate doorway through which people filed.
How much had all this cost? He couldn't believe the extravagant support Ob had invested here. The aloof Bureau Chief must have plenty of confidence in Garth.
Invitations were checked, celebrities welcomed by name. Holding his VIP pass in hand, Eduard worked his way through the crowd. A redheaded woman in a voluminous pink dress jostled his arm, and he winced at the surprising ripples of pain. Taking a deep breath, he blocked his aches and pushed forward. He had lived through far greater pain in his life, and he would damned well put on a good show for Garth's big night.
Inside, the floor's synthetic semiprecious stones were polished to a luster that Egyptian pharaohs had only dreamed of. Attendees in the outer foyer sipped from fluted glasses of champagne or nibbled hors d'oeuvres. Rich patrons had rented fine bodies for the evening, some dressed so gaudily they appeared to be on exhibit themselves.
Bureau Chief Mordecai Ob wore an exquisite tuxedo, standing beside Garth, who looked greatly out of his depth. Ob beamed with pride, as if taking credit for the exhibition—which he could, in a way, since it had been his patronage, his important connections and possibly even bribe money that had generated the intense buzz necessary to launch Garth into stardom.
From the cavernous lobby, a line of spectators worked its way toward the main exhibit room. A doorway on the other side of the showroom let out a stream of wavering people who had completed their circuit of the FRUSTRATION exhibit. Most were visibly moved, their expressions stony or fallen, some openly weeping.
Seeing this, Eduard felt honored and filled with joy for his friend, though Garth hadn't seen him yet. He took a deep breath, finding strength inside. Chin up, he entered the mass of well-dressed people, searching for Teresa in the crowd.
“You should have seen Garth's first show,” Pashnak said to Stradley, his voice strong and pleased. “I think I was the only person who bought anything. Total disaster.”
The hype-meister beamed at the turnout in the exhibition hall. “Well, he didn't have me to help him out last time. It's not enough for an artist just to do good work. Someone has to convince the masses that it's good. Someone has to sell it—otherwise nobody sees it.”
Pashnak nodded. “This is great work, Mr. Stradley, and you did a remarkable job bringing people in here to experience it. Once word gets around about FRUSTRATION, Garth will never have publicity problems again.”
Stradley shrugged. “Never underestimate the short attention span of the consumer base, especially in the artistic community.” He snagged a glass of champagne. “I hate this stuff, but it's tradition.” He took a gulp, grimaced at the fizz, then finished off the bubbly drink. “This is my favorite part of a star's career, the first big break. You can never re-create that adrenaline rush, though they try. Heaven knows they try. It's pathetic to watch later on.”
From a tray, he plucked a cracker spread with salmon mousse, continuing to talk while he crunched. “Even with Chief Ob's assistance, I have to admit I'm amazed at how easy it was to get publicity for Garth—the right kind of publicity, too. I was able to make perfect connections. My e-nouncements popped to the top of the stack, and media attention magically appeared. I wish all my hype worked like that. If I was superstitious, I'd say COM wanted to help this kid.”
Pashnak surveyed the crowd, maintaining a professional smile. “Garth deserves it, Stradley. You don't know how long he's worked for this.�
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“And I don't care, either. For every Garth Swan who makes it, a thousand others work just as hard with just as much talent . . . and remain wanna-bes for the rest of their miserable lives.” He flashed another professional smile—Stradley was good at that. “Me, I enjoy the challenge, the battle to create a new star. For Garth, it was almost too simple!”
“I'm not complaining.” Pashnak continued to survey the crowd, greeting people he was supposed to recognize—famous socialites, politicians—but who could ever be sure which body was which? “My God, that's Teresa!” he said under his breath and left the hype-meister to graze the hors d'oeuvres by himself.
Blinded by adrenaline and praise, Garth extricated himself from Mordecai Ob. Seeing Eduard, he fought through the press of people, dodging autograph hunters and paparazzi who worked with triangulating cameras to catch the artist in full holo. He embraced Eduard in an exuberant bear hug, so excited that he didn't even notice his friend's pained reaction. “You believe all of this? Is it real, or am I just hallucinating? At the moment, I'm so frazzled that Pashnak had to tie my shoes for me.”
Around them, camera crews caught the entire encounter. Eduard patted the big blond man on the back. “It's real enough, Garth. You'll be able to see it again and again on all the newsnets if you do a topic search. No problem.” He made a comical face for one of the imagers.
Pashnak hurried up to them, leading Teresa. Laughing, Garth warmly hugged her. “You know, I'm getting used to you in this body. Big eyed and innocent looking. It suits you after all.”
“Good, because this is where I'm going to stay.” She looked with concern at Eduard's haggard appearance, but before she could say anything, Garth gestured toward the inner exhibition room.
“Have you two been through yet? Come, let me take you to the front of the line. I want you to see what I've been trying to do for so many years. Maybe this'll convince you that I wasn't crazy all along.”
Teresa chuckled. “Oh, Garth, we've all been crazy in our lives, don't you think?”
“You can say that again,” Eduard said.
As soon as Garth had escorted them into the inner chamber, Pashnak and the reporters dragged the artist away again. “Sorry, Garth. Mr. Ob insists.” With a wave, the blond artist vanished back into the swirl of people.
Now Teresa stood next to Eduard, lowering her voice. “You look terrible.” She ran a loving hand along his face, like a concerned mother. “I can see shadows all around you.”
“I'll be all right, Teresa.”
She huffed. “You'd never let me get away with an answer like that.”
He walked ahead into the experience room, seeking refuge in the darkness. “I've already run my own scans but couldn't find any disease, any virus. No known toxins, poisons.” Eduard shrugged, then scowled at the sharp pain in his shoulder. “Still, I think . . . my boss might be doing something in my body.”
She looked across the faces in the crowd, seeing where Garth was shaking the hand of a statuesque woman in a dazzling formal dress. The Bureau Chief smiled beside him, as if basking in the artist's glow. “Mr. Ob seems like such a generous person. Look at how much he's helped Garth.”
“Tell that to his other three trainers—if you can find them. Everyone who's had this job before me has disappeared.”
Alarmed, she took his arm. Her unfortunate experiences with Rhys had taught her not to trust people as much as she wanted to. “Oh, Eduard—maybe you need to leave that job? Have you talked to Daragon?”
He responded with a sharp laugh. “Daragon thinks Mordecai Ob is God, and after tonight Garth would probably agree. No, this is something I need to take care of myself, and I'd rather not just walk away from this job.”
She grabbed his hand before they could disappear into the dim exhibit. Behind them, people pushed forward, urging them on. “Eduard, you've never been good at asking for help. Promise you'll come to me if there's ever anything I can do for you. I owe you enough already, don't you think?”
Eduard placed a gentle finger on her lips to stop further protests. He noticed with alarm that his hand was trembling. “You don't owe me anything.” He kissed her gently on the forehead. “Teresa, I promise. I'm not hiding anything from you—I just don't know the answer myself yet.”
He took her hand and drew her farther into the exhibit. “This is Garth's night. Let's be happy for him.”
Outside the gallery, keeping away from the bright lights, Daragon watched it all, enjoying Garth's success. Tonight, Mr. Ob was with him, separate from the Bureau, probably imagining a different life for himself, how it might have been if he'd been a successful artist instead of the BTL Chief.
Daragon strode along the edge of the crowd as if his job were to maintain order at the show. People gave way, letting him move unhindered around the perimeter of the exhibition building, past the water-fans and lasers. Before the opening, accompanying Chief Ob, Daragon had seen the exhibit in a special showing with Garth, Stradley, Pashnak, and several VIPs. Nothing in the auditorium, though, could give him more pleasure than to see the attention his friend had finally received.
As he watched the ebb and flow of people, he noticed how many of the guests departed looking contemplative, uncertain, disturbed. Some chuckled nervously, some remained silent, hurrying to their hoverlimos. A few smiled wistfully, shaking their heads. Yes, Garth's work had touched them, all right.
“Congratulations, my friend,” he said quietly.
Then he saw Eduard and Teresa standing near one of the exits, deep in conversation, both excited and moved. Noticing him, Teresa rushed forward to take his hand. “Oh, Daragon, come inside with us! Garth would be so happy to see you.”
“He came with Mr. Ob,” Eduard pointed out.
“I've already talked with him and seen the show. It's better if I keep a low profile out here.” Daragon felt very self-conscious in his uniform. “I know how intimidating my presence can be.”
Teresa let out a sparkling laugh. “You don't intimidate us.”
“I doubt the people who came to see Garth's art would feel the same way. I don't want to cast any shadow, not on this night of all nights.” He looked toward the doors. “But I had to be here.”
From behind his shadowed eyes, Eduard forced a smile. “Just to keep an eye on your friends? Watching over us?”
“To make sure nothing goes wrong. As always.”
As quickly as he could, Daragon found an excuse to go. He walked away from the lights and music, leaving his friends behind.
38
Swapportunities!
It was a cute word displayed on the big flickering board in Club Masquerade. The postings always changed, shifted in a fountain of possibilities, needs, and desires. Prime material for his List.
Hands clasped behind his back in a Napoleonic stance, Garth stood before the Hopscotch Board and read listing after listing. People placed their requests here, some valid for that hour or day only; more unusual requests remained unanswered for months—including some of his own.
Many of the postings were sexual invitations for instant flings and afternoon diversions. Hopefuls posted bounties for stolen bodies, rent requests for better physiques. A desperate few offered their own bodies for sale.
Garth came here on his search, forever on the lookout. Sometimes he thought he would never finish his quest . . . though that might actually be a good thing. Life and learning should never be finished. After the huge success of the recent FRUSTRATION exhibit, Garth already wondered what to do next. Stradley insisted that the second success was even more important than the first.
Munching on a cinnamon stim-stick, he settled in at a small table to watch the people, to take notes on his datapad. Dance music continued in the background, droning with primal rhythms. Though the Club was relatively quiet on a slow afternoon, pleasure-seekers did their best to re-create the chaos and color of peak business hours. From here, he could also keep an eye on the Hopscotch Board, in case anything new came up.
On the tablescreen, the cybernetic bartender's smiling face appeared. “Ah, Garth, at it again, I see.”
“Always need new inspiration, Bernard.”
Down at the main bar, Rovin's arms buzzed about, each set making a different cocktail for a different customer. Though his mind was multiprocessing dozens of orders and hundreds of minor business details, Rovin seemed attentive to Garth alone. “I've read reviews of your art show. Sounds like you made quite a splash. An overnight success!”
Garth smiled wryly down at the image. “An overnight success after years of working in total obscurity.”
“You weren't wasting your time. You were learning your craft.”
Garth's lambic beer appeared, and he took a refreshing sip. “All that time I spent studying people and places really paid off. Last week I lived two days as a dwarf, and it really changes your perspective. Nothing's at the right height—not door controls, not COM terminals, not the transport systems. Quite a challenge just to climb up onto a barstool.”
“Easy to fall off, though,” Rovin said with a grin. “So, are you finished with your List?”
“Not by a long shot. I haven't even had a baby yet. I could spend a lifetime just living other lives.”
The music changed on the dance floor. Hovering platforms shuffled in the air, bringing groups closer together and allowing members to hop from one disk to another.
“No matter how much swapping you manage, Garth, you could never experience as many things as I do every day.” At the bar, mechanical arms continued to mix and deliver drinks. Screens glowed at countless tables, where Rovin engaged in numerous conversations, independent of what he was saying to Garth.
“What do you mean, Bernard? I've always felt sorry for you, trapped in here, never able to go outside and see the world. Unable to . . . go see my art exhibit, for instance.”
“I've already seen the world, Garth. I had a lot of fun in my younger days, but I got swatted down with a terrorist bomb and a hovercar crash. In here, I'm safe and in control of it all. Through my different substations, I have everything I want. I can watch my customers, hear each conversation, participate in a thousand things at once. How can a single pair of arms and legs match that?”
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