Regrets. It was much too late for such regrets.
Halfway down the stairs, Arthur gasped and Teresa felt him slump into unconsciousness. Limp, he was actually easier to carry, since the stuttering movements of his trembling limbs hadn't helped her much anyway. She just prayed that he hadn't already died.
Finally she wrestled the old man to a maintenance exit. She popped open the metal door on the mezzanine level and dragged Arthur outside. She slumped with him onto the concrete and loose pebbles of a hovercraft loading dock that overlooked the square.
The fresh air seemed to revive the old man. He took a deep breath and shook his head. Yellow-gray hair lay around his skull like dirty straw. Teresa propped him up, resting his bony shoulders against her chest. She hugged him. “Arthur, please fight. Please stay alive.”
“My, but you're demanding,” he said weakly, then coughed again. She saw blood on his lips. The whites of his eyes had hemorrhaged, turning a deep crimson. His whole body shuddered.
As Teresa held him, she knew he was slipping away. Leaving her. She would be alone and adrift again. She swallowed hard and decided to try one last time. “Oh, Arthur, please hopscotch with me. You don't need to die.”
He shook his head and groaned.
“I mean it, Arthur. This is my only way to thank you.”
He shook his head, blinked his watering eyes.
“Look, if we swap, I don't plan to give up and die,” Teresa continued. “I'm sure I can survive long enough in your body to reach help. You're totally worn out. You must have been fighting this for years. But I'm strong. I can take care of your body just long enough to reach the medical center. It's your last chance.”
“No,” Arthur said, his voice hoarse and husky.
“I can save you! But only if you let me.”
She needed Arthur to stay alive, to keep teaching her, even if it meant he had to give up his stubborn principles and switch bodies. Even if she couldn't survive in his fading body, Teresa decided that his life was worth more than hers, because he understood so much more about it.
But as he stared at the bright blue sky, Arthur seemed disappointed that she would even suggest such a thing. “Haven't you heard a word I've said?”
Teresa held him. He clung to his principles to the end, and she felt ashamed that she had tried to convince him otherwise. Arthur gazed into the sun, then his eyes stopped blinking. The bright light reflected from his face, and he died.
She stared at his face, looked at the air around him, hoping she could somehow watch the soul leave his body, much as she had witnessed during Soft Stone's upload into COM so long ago.
But she saw nothing, no spirit, no angels, no wondrous passage. Arthur was gone, his old body empty. A lifeless husk.
She held his lifeless form on the landing, silently sobbing.
40
After they swapped for another morning routine, Mordecai Ob frowned as he settled into Eduard's home-body. With an expression of distaste, he flexed the sore, weakening muscles. “Eduard, you feel like crap. If you can't maintain yourself better, I'm going to have to get a new caretaker.”
“Sorry, sir. I'd hoped it would get better by now. Is it possible that something you're—”
“It's your problem, Eduard, not mine,” Ob said with a scowl. “It's hard for me to do my own work when I'm in a body that feels this bad.”
“If you'd like, sir, I can swap back.” Eduard watched the man closely for his reaction. Maybe I should just keep your precious body for myself and run off. Leave you stranded in mine, whatever it is you're doing to it. “Should I make an appointment for a deep-level medical scan to identify what's the matter?”
“No, no.” The Bureau Chief shooed him out of the study. “You've got a long workout to do, and I have an important teleconference meeting that requires absolute privacy here. Don't disturb me.”
Eduard departed, trying to hide the flare of suspicious anger in his eyes. Ob sealed the door to his sanctum and switched off the lights. Sunshine filtered through the leafy screen of hibiscus vines that covered the window. The world seemed dim and dreary again, especially after he'd seen Garth's triumphant success, and he needed more inspiration.
Using borrowed trembling hands, Ob popped open the bottom desk drawer to reveal a case of glasgel capsules. Eduard had been his addiction receptacle for months now, but the young body-caretaker was nearing the end of his usefulness. Ob didn't dare let him consult a competent medical professional, since a deep-level scan would detect the residue of the illegal drug, and then there would be too many questions.
Ob had reconfigured the capsules himself, increasing the dosage. Eduard's body had grown so accustomed to Rush-X that he needed more and more of the drug to achieve the full effect. Eduard had lasted longer than his three predecessors, but the body had reached its limits—a larger amount would be quite dangerous, even for someone who had already tolerated so much Rush-X.
Once again Ob shuddered at what might have happened had he used the drug in his own body, instead of surrogates like Eduard. Since there was a chance he might still get caught, he had already used the resources of his Bureau authority to set up Eduard to take a fall. He had even planted several capsules of Rush-X and related paraphernalia in the caretaker's quarters, which Ob would conveniently “find,” if necessary.
Now, he withdrew the fragile capsule and held it in his fingers, anticipating how the dissolvable glasgel would break and the vibrant fluid dribble under his tongue. He raised it to his lips.
The videoscreen on his desk rang, demanding his attention. The priority tone was so loud and sharp that Eduard's jittery fingers nearly crushed the capsule. Regaining his composure, Ob hid the Rush-X from view and activated the receive-call button. His mouth was very dry.
Inspector Daragon's image stared back at him, attentive and expectant. “Sir,” he said without waiting for a response, “you and I had our regular caseload meeting scheduled for this morning. I'm out at Bureau Headquarters, but I understand you're working at home today? Would a teleconference discussion suit you instead?”
Ob controlled his surprise, taking special care to keep the capsules hidden. He had been so focused on the morning's drug fix that he'd forgotten entirely. “I apologize for not being there as promised, Daragon. I've been very busy and needed to handle several urgent matters at once.”
“I understand, sir. I can be as concise as possible.” His voice was calm, his demeanor indisputably professional. Ob wondered what he had done to engender such loyalty in the young Inspector. Daragon Swan was probably the best of the lot, the finest achievement the BTL could hope for.
It shamed him to realize how far from the mark he himself had fallen.
Daragon summarized his cases, updating him on the Bureau's progress in numerous fugitive hunts and investigations. Ob pretended to listen, fighting to keep a mask of interest on his face while the back of his mind clamored for the drug. He felt the slick capsule in his sweaty fingers.
Would Daragon never finish? Why did he take on so many cases, and why did he have so damned much progress to report?
Finally Daragon summed up, then hesitated. Impatient, Ob blurted, “Is there something else, Inspector?”
“Sir, you're not looking at all healthy. Eduard's body seems to be experiencing some sort of illness. Perhaps he should see a specialist?”
Ob stiffened. “I am sorry to inform you, Inspector, that your friend isn't working out very well.” He raised a hand, palm up, to cut off any excuses. “He exercises well and does his job, but unfortunately he just doesn't take care of his home-body with the same dedication, and I have to deal with this discomfort during my workday.” He looked somberly at the screen. “I've given him every possible chance, but I believe he has problems that neither of us suspects.”
Daragon frowned. “I understand, sir. Still, I'm very concerned about Eduard's health—”
“Well, I'm afraid I can't put up with it anymore. I have already advertised for his replacement. I
should have a new personal caretaker in a few days. I do hope Eduard recovers from his personal problems, but I've simply got too many vital Bureau duties to allow this kind of distraction to go on any longer.”
Daragon swallowed his reaction, torn between wanting to please Ob and wanting to protect his friend. He nodded crisply. “I had counted on him to do better than this. I hope you aren't upset with me for bringing Eduard to your attention.”
Ob couldn't have asked for a better outcome or reaction. “It was nothing you could have predicted, Daragon. Your friend Garth has been an exceptional find, exactly what I hoped. But with Eduard, well . . . sometimes people just let you down.” He reached for the screen controls. “Now, if you'll excuse me. I have important matters before me.”
“Yes, sir.” Daragon dutifully signed off.
Ob opened his mouth and slipped in the glasgel. His jaws cracked down—releasing the blessed flood of liquid creativity, exuberance, and sense of wonder, to soar through his system.
While he jogged, Eduard wished the exhilarating feeling would never stop. Ob's muscles were so strong, so well conditioned. The way his own body should have felt. What is he doing to me?
Teresa had suggested that he simply walk away from what was obviously a worsening situation. But he had been stubborn, trying to uncover what was going on. Soon, he wouldn't have any choice.
The night before, Eduard had stumbled out of his apartment and fallen to his knees in the cool air as the wind rustled the tall blue spruces. He coughed and dry-heaved on the walkway. As he huddled on his hands and knees in the darkness, he'd looked over to the gardener's brightly lit cottage, quiet and peaceful. Eduard considered going to talk to Tanu, but he simply felt too bad. He couldn't present himself like this.
Now, though, wearing Ob's home-body, he was reminded of the way a healthy human being should feel. He ran along the extended jogging course, past his second wind, beyond the “wall” where he ceased to concentrate on what his muscles were doing.
The Samoan gardener stepped in front of him and gestured for him to stop. Eduard barely snapped out of his trance in time. He stumbled to a halt. The look of concern on Tanu's face shocked him.
“Eduard,” he began, then seemed at a loss for words. “This has gone on too long. I must . . . must show you something.”
Astonished, Eduard sucked in a quick mouthful of air. “What changed your mind?”
“I saw you last night, how sick you were.” He swallowed hard, and his huge neck seemed barely able to contain his Adam's apple. “This isn't right. It's not what you agreed to do. I watched the others, and I did nothing. But not this time. In a few days, you'll be gone, and Mr. Ob will have a new caretaker . . . and he'll do this all over again.” His brown eyes were large and sad.
“A new caretaker?” A jab of fear ran down Eduard's spine. “But I've done everything that bastard—”
“You have done more than you know. You are my friend, Eduard. I don't want to see you go. I don't want to see you die.” Tanu gestured for Eduard to accompany him. They crept along the side wing of the house, staying out of view of the windows and moved to Ob's private offices.
The brick walls were overgrown with thick hibiscus, and the heady perfume was nauseating in its sweetness. Tanu put a finger to his lips as they approached the main window in Ob's study. The Samoan hung his shaggy-maned head in sorrow and disappointment.
Heart pounding, Eduard crept up to the window and parted the leaves.
Inside the private office, behind a locked door, the Bureau Chief sat at his desk, complacent about security precautions. In Eduard's body, he leaned back with his eyes glazed and milky. His hands were spread out, tapping fine tremors on the desktop. A thin line of spittle ran down his chin.
In an open case on the desk, Eduard saw individual capsules of a milky substance. He remembered the terrible squid-and-cleaning-fluid taste in his mouth. “You son of a bitch.”
The pieces dropped into place. Rage seethed deep inside him, and he wanted to smash through the window to grab the man by the collar. All along, the Bureau Chief had known full well what was wrong with Eduard, why he felt so awful. And he'd blamed Eduard anyway.
Ob had been riding his addiction, risking nothing for himself. Sandor and Janine and Benjamin—the previous trainers. Eduard was next in line, to be completely used up. Ob would then find a new caretaker, his next victim—a fresh body to addict and destroy. And Eduard Swan would probably vanish, just like the others, erased by the capabilities of the BTL.
He drew back from the study window, his face red. Eduard had been the perfect patsy. Trembling, he stepped away from the vine-covered glass, before he could betray his presence.
Tanu frowned. “There's still time for you to get away. Run, now.”
But Eduard couldn't think of fleeing in Mordecai Ob's body. The Bureau Chief with all the resources of the BTL would stop at nothing to get his own form back before Eduard could talk.
Instead, his thoughts grew vengeful, his outrage greater than when he had gone to avenge Teresa at the Sharetakers' enclave. Ob's deeds were worse, more malicious, even than Rhys's.
Disturbed, Tanu shook his shaggy head, as if he could tell what Eduard was thinking. “I won't swap with you this time. You can't use my body to kill.”
Eduard brooded in silence. This was more personal. This required something more . . . appropriate. “I'll take care of this problem myself,” he said, his voice a grim icicle. “In my own way.”
No problem.
41
At last Garth was expecting a baby, with all the bodily changes and hormonal roller coasters that pregnancy entailed. A new and interesting experience, one of the best yet.
Pashnak didn't know how long he, himself, could last.
Some pregnant women rented out their bodies to infertile females who wanted the experience of childbirth, to doctors doing research, even to curious men, like Garth. There were plenty of female candidates to choose from, but Garth had been selective, and the women themselves were choosy, adding numerous restrictions to the contract about the eventual disposition of the baby and about the care the “inhabitant” would give to the pregnant body.
Pashnak had arranged for Garth to interview numerous women because he needed to find a body he could tolerate for at least four weeks. Someday, when he had time, the artist thought about going through the whole experience, from start to finish. For now, though, he was most curious about the last month of chemical buildups and changes, as well as the actual birth itself. He figured he could learn a lot from it.
He settled on a short brunette with soft curly hair that fell in waves to her shoulders. She was retaining water, her aching joints were swollen. Because of the substantial cushioning weight her body had acquired, her lower back hurt chronically. Garth waddled around the room, taking note of all this as he tested out his new body.
Standing in his broad-shouldered physique, she laughed at the artist's sense of wonder. “You've got it easy, buster—you missed two straight months of nausea and morning sickness. Interrupted sleep, weird food cravings, Braxton-Hicks contractions, swollen feet and hands. All you get are labor pains, hemorrhoids, backaches, and having to pee all the time.”
“You make it sound so delightful.”
“It's what you're paying for, buster.” They arranged a regular meeting schedule so the mother could keep up with the progressing pregnancy. “The baby's going to be a girl, by the way.”
At first, the experiences added interesting new insights to his understanding of people. However, after living in this woman's cumbersome body for one week and then another, he began to feel the emotional differences. Hormonal imbalances caused him to fly into a rage or wallow in despair. He did obsessive things that seemed absolutely necessary at the time—arranging and rearranging his art supplies, demanding a particular color of mug for his coffee—though when the moment was past, he realized his actions made no sense. It was very confusing, this motherhood.
Sometimes Gar
th sat with his artwork, hopeless, unable to regain a shred of inspiration. In such moments, he sobbed uncontrollably, and nothing—not even Pashnak's concern—could snap him out of it.
Pashnak did his best to tolerate his master's changing moods. He exhibited superhuman patience, holding Garth's hand when he needed it, helping him take a seat when his swollen body became too unwieldy to control, feeding the artist whatever bizarre menu items he requested. Garth often had heartburn or complained of being full without having eaten very much. Pashnak insisted that he take vitamin supplements, at the very least.
Mornings, Garth fretted about being fat. In the afternoons he worried about being ugly. But there were magical, transcendent times too, when the joy of carrying the life growing inside made him just sit alone on the sofa, cradling his enormous abdomen, sensing the baby's heartbeat . . . and he would begin to cry all over again. “I'm not worthy. This is too special. I don't deserve this.”
Pashnak trotted around the apartment and studio, working out schedules and rearranging meetings and obligations. During Garth's stay in a pregnant body, all other List items had to be postponed. When the hype-meister Stradley dumped interview seekers at him, Pashnak judged whether or not the artist was able to handle incisive questions or media attention at the time.
Shouting, Garth made demands as, encumbered by his girth, he was unable to do simple tasks for himself. Despite his frustration with an already eccentric artist who didn't know how to deal with storms of unusual hormones, Pashnak convinced himself he could last a couple more weeks, until things got back to normal again. He hoped.
“I want coffee,” Garth said as he worked hard to develop a second exhibit for his portfolio of experiential artwork. “Bring me some coffee, and make it strong! I need to be awake.” Pashnak had been slipping him decaffeinated coffee in his daily mug. So far, the pregnant artist hadn't noticed the difference.
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