Hopscotch

by Kevin Anderson

  This would be the last time. The last time. First, though, Ob would get a taste of his own crimes. A suitable threat, a humiliating revenge—though, as with Madame Ruxton, Eduard had a fluttering sensation that perhaps he was again out of his depth.

  Would Ob really just let him go, let him walk away from the mansion with his drug-wracked body? Since Eduard was friends with Inspector Daragon, could Ob risk making him simply disappear, like the other caretakers? Or did the Chief believe he had Daragon so completely indoctrinated that he could do anything with impunity? Eduard felt cold inside.

  Ob would make up stories, distort the truth, probably plant evidence—who would believe Eduard's word over the testimony of the powerful and benevolent Bureau Chief?

  Eduard could imagine Daragon's response if he claimed the young Inspector's mentor was a deceitful, manipulative bastard who used other humans as receptacles for his own pleasure, regularly ingesting illegal drugs and enjoying addictions at the expense of unwitting host bodies. That the Chief was in all likelihood a murderer himself, disposing of strung-out caretakers before they could reveal his secret . . .

  No one would believe it. Not even Daragon. No one else would ever exact justice for himself or for Sandor Perun, Janine Kuritz, and Benjamin Padwa. Unless Eduard did it himself, as he had done with Rhys and the Sharetakers . . .

  Already, he had deftly slipped the four pearlescent capsules one at a time into his mouth, tucking them on either side of his tongue. He would have to keep his head down. Luckily, Ob wasn't much of a conversationalist.

  Time to give the man a taste of his own medicine . . .

  Now, at Ob's private office, Eduard strode forward, breathing through his nose, keeping his lips clamped shut, his gaze averted. Completely on guard. He just wanted to swap back and get out of this abuser's body.

  From behind his desk, the sickly-looking form of Eduard stood up. “We have business to discuss, about your performance on my behalf.”

  Eduard grunted noncommittally and came closer. He could feel the fragile glasgel starting to dissolve in his mouth. He couldn't swallow, couldn't move. He didn't even know how fast the drug would act, or how large a dose this body could stand.

  Ob came around the desk toward him. “I'm afraid I will have no choice but to terminate your employment. Swap with me, and be done with it.”

  Why was the man talking now? Why didn't he swap first and then continue with his lecture? Ob stopped, looking with extreme annoyance at the rosebush scratches on the well-muscled arm and the side of his leg. “You've done it again! This is inexcusable.”

  Eduard reached forward and grabbed Ob's temples even as he bit down, shattering all four capsules in his mouth.

  The instant before they swapped, he felt a cold, awful-tasting fire surge into the sensitive tissues in his gums, under his tongue, and through the roof of his mouth. Ob had been doing the same thing to Eduard's body all along. See how you like it. He felt a lightning storm begin to surge through his mind, through his nerves—

  Then his mind was displaced, flicked across the gulf . . . and Eduard found himself in his own aching body again. Back home.

  The look of wide-eyed horror on Ob's face was comical. He swallowed convulsively, then opened his mouth to spit out the fragments of already dissolving glasgel.

  Eduard leaned forward, ferocious now. “How do you like the taste, Master Ob? I know what you've been doing to me, but this time it's your own body being damaged. Four capsules should be just about enough to make my point. Enjoy the sensation.”

  Ob grabbed at his throat, blinking his eyes, but already his vision glazed. “Four? Rush-X . . . four!” He staggered forward, stretching out his hands. “Swap back!”

  Eduard easily sidestepped the disoriented man, steeling himself against pity. “I don't think so. You deserve some pain for what you've put me through.” Eyes blazing, he leaned forward like an avenging angel. “And all your other caretakers, too?”

  Eduard had never been so glad to be back in his own body, despite its flaws, despite its weaknesses and its degenerating condition. It was his body.

  Ob slumped to the carpeted floor, his fingers clenched in a clawlike grasp. Then his face grew slack and subsided into an idiot grin as drool poured from one side of his mouth. The Bureau Chief's crotch darkened as he lost bladder control.

  With a flash of remorse Eduard wondered if he should call a medical team. During the addiction, his body had developed a tolerance, but Ob's perfectly tended body was clean. It had acquired no resistance. Eduard didn't know how bad the Rush-X overdose would be. He took a tentative step toward the COM screen, then looked back at his employer.

  His indecision dissolved into disbelief as he watched Mordecai Ob die.

  Shock washed all thoughts of justified vengeance from his mind. He'd imagined a suitably nasty poetic justice against the man who had addicted his body to Rush-X, and he'd acted impulsively. Paralysis overtook him as he realized what he had done. Eduard had never meant to murder him.

  He would explain that it was an accident, that he had acted out of self-defense. Surely, based on what had happened to the previous caretakers, Ob had intended to make him “disappear” after terminating his employment. Eduard knew it in his bones.

  But who would believe him? Even if Tanu the gardener spoke up for him, he still had no proof. He had taken the last of the hidden Rush-X capsules, removing even that evidence.

  Ob's loyal Beetles—including Daragon—would never rest until they captured him. Eduard had killed the vastly powerful leader of the Bureau of Tracing and Locations. In all likelihood, they would never let him make his accusations and besmirch the revered memory of the BTL Chief, patron of the arts. Eduard remembered how the BTL apprehension specialists had gunned down the anti-COM terrorists in the flower market. . . .

  Frantic, he looked around, trying to decide what to do. He had to get away.

  Just then he heard footsteps in the hall. An identity chime rang through the intercom system as an officer entered the foyer after being recognized by the security systems. “Mr. Ob, it's Daragon, here for our weekly briefing.” His boots clomped on the floor, approaching the office. “And I'd also like to see Eduard, if that's all right?”

  For a frozen moment, he thought about surrendering to Daragon, his former friend—who was now totally devoted to the BTL. Especially to Mordecai Ob. Eduard would never convince Daragon that his mentor had been a malignant parasite. As the unsuspecting Inspector came down the corridor, Eduard knew he was trapped.

  Leaving the still-twitching corpse on the floor, he picked up the desk chair and hurled it through the window masked by hibiscus shrubs. The hole was just large enough for Eduard to get through. He would have to move fast.

  Hearing the glass break, Daragon ran down the hall. “Mr. Ob!”

  As Eduard climbed to the windowsill and pushed himself through the vines, Daragon burst into the room. Eduard looked over his shoulder, his eyes fearful, frozen for a moment.

  Their eyes met. “I'm sorry, Daragon.” Then he dropped to the ground outside.

  Daragon noticed the Chief sprawled on the floor. “My God!” He fell to his knees, touched the man's cheeks, grabbed his shoulders. He saw the drool and smelled the drugs, felt the oily slick perspiration covering the man's already cooling skin. He felt for a pulse but found none.

  “Eduard! What have you done?” He ran to the broken window.

  Eduard sprinted across the estate grounds toward the gated exit.

  Daragon crawled through the smashed window, ripping his neat uniform. He jerked tangled branches away from his face, scrambled clear, and dropped to the ground.

  Hearing the shouts, the huge Samoan gardener hurried toward the outside of the office. Tanu stood there, blocking Daragon's way. “What's happened?”

  Daragon looked after Eduard. “Not now!”

  But Tanu grabbed his arm, clumsily stalling the Inspector. “Tell me! I need to know.”

  Daragon yanked himself free. The big
gardener moved as if to block him again, but the Inspector ducked under his massive arm. “Damn you, Eduard!”

  His former friend dashed through the gate and out into the streets. Eduard ran and ran for his life. . . .

  44

  Eager to see her friends, Teresa came early to Club Masquerade, arriving even before Garth for a change. She sat in a comfortable floating chair, listening to her turmoil of thoughts. The pain of losing Arthur and his ideas was still fresh, but she determined to turn it into something positive.

  She bought a wintergreen-flavored stim-stick and kept an eye on the various entrances. Music throbbed like a jogger's heartbeat in the background.

  The last time they'd met here in the Club, she had told Eduard and Garth about the wonderful things the old man had taught her, but now she needed more from them. Maybe the two men wouldn't understand her quest to find her original body, but at least they would listen.

  An enormously pregnant woman with curly brown hair waddled in. She scanned the faces until her eyes lit upon Teresa's waifish form. The pregnant woman waved at her, then huffed up a small set of stairs to the raised table where Teresa sat.

  “My back hurts.” He pulled one of the chairs out much farther from the table than he actually needed to and struggled to maneuver his body. Slowly, carefully, he sat down. “I asked for this, so I can't complain. But the . . . unwieldiness is affecting my ability to work.”

  “Garth, you look absolutely radiant,” she said with a smile. “Tell me, what does it feel like? Having a baby inside you, another life growing.”

  “For one thing, it's triggered my nesting instincts. I worry about things I never thought of before—and spend as much time cleaning the house as I do creating my art. I don't know how much of it is biochemical and how much is mental.” He cradled his belly and ran an eye over her delicate form. “You should try it sometime. Or would you rather just swap with me for an hour? As long as you don't tell anybody. I've got a very strict contract with the conception-mother.”

  Teresa shook her head quickly. “No . . . I'm done with fast hopscotching, until I can find my own body again.”

  He regarded her with curiosity, but respected her choice. When Bernard Rovin's face appeared on the table filmscreen, Garth ordered a carbonated juice drink, forsaking his usual beer. He placed a hand on his abdomen as a flicker of pain traveled across his face.

  Teresa leaned forward in alarm. “Oh, you're not going to have the baby here, are you?”

  “Don't be melodramatic. It could be just gas.” Garth laughed. “These irregular contractions are coming more frequently, though. I'm due in only a few days.” His juice drink arrived from the dispenser, and he took a long sip.

  “You going to name the baby after me, Garth?” the bartender asked from the screen, image grinning.

  “It's a girl, Bernard. Besides, that's out of my hands. Within a day after delivery I swap back with the conception-mother.”

  “It sounds like she's getting the better end of the deal, don't you think?” Teresa said.

  Rovin's face changed on the screen, this time speaking with a sharp tone. “Your friend Eduard's coming through. He's in a hurry, and he doesn't look at all good.”

  Teresa stood up, scanning the various entrances. She saw the haggard young man dash from the Arabian Nights room into the main bar. His face was drawn, his brow and hair misted with sweat, his dark eyes wide and frightened.

  She waved. “Oh, Eduard! Over here!”

  He flinched at the sound of his name above the pulsing music, then made eye contact with Teresa. Garth raised his hand in greeting, struggled briefly, then abandoned the effort to get up.

  Eduard hunched down and averted his face as he moved through the crowd, but his furtive efforts only attracted more attention. Teresa met him halfway to the table, draped her arm across his shoulder. His clothes were drenched with sweat and smelled rank. Ravenous, he plucked one of Teresa's wintergreen stim-sticks from a tray. “Can I have this? I really need it.”

  He crunched down the stick, and Garth pushed his remaining half-glass of juice toward his friend. “Here, drink this, too. We'll order another round, and some food. Did you hear that, Bernard?”

  “Got it,” said the screen.

  “Eduard, what is it? What's happened?” Teresa asked.

  He gulped Garth's juice, then looked with hunted eyes first at Teresa, then at Garth. “I'm on the run, and I'm desperate. I need help. And money.” He sucked in a deep breath. He looked down at his ID patch with dismay. “I don't dare use COM. The Beetles would trace any transaction, locate me anytime I try to log in.”

  Garth and Teresa shifted their chairs closer, like covered wagons circling. Their new positions would keep anyone from spotting Eduard from the door.

  “What happened, Eduard?” Garth said.

  “You know you can tell us anything.” Teresa's voice overlapped Garth's.

  Eduard looked at his hands, which clenched into gnarled fists. His hands trembled with inner quakings. “I was too damned impulsive.” Then he frowned more deeply. “The bastard deserved it, but I never meant for this to happen.”

  “Who?” Garth persisted.

  “Ob—I . . . I think I killed him.” As they sat stunned, he explained what the Bureau Chief had been doing to him, addicting him to Rush-X, destroying his body as he had done to his previous three body-caretakers.

  Garth looked as if he couldn't believe it, nor could he disbelieve anything Eduard said. He gasped as another labor spasm hit him, but he was just as astonished to think of what Mordecai Ob had been doing to his friend, even while he was acting as a patron for Garth's struggling artistic career.

  Teresa kept her voice low, remembering that she had talked with Eduard about this at the FRUSTRATION debut. “Why didn't you come to us sooner? Either one of us would have helped you out—”

  “I knew you two would be here. Maybe I'll be safe for a few minutes, maybe not. It could be my last chance to see you both. From now on, the Beetles will be watching everyone, especially you two, and I don't want to put you in danger.”

  “Turn yourself in,” Garth said, surprised to find tears pouring down his cheeks. “You can't just run.”

  Eduard's haggard face turned hard. “Don't be ridiculous! I killed the head of the BTL, and then I ran. I couldn't look more guilty if I tried. Ob wasn't stupid, and look how he made everybody love him—you included, Garth. He wouldn't have left any clues, and his previous caretakers have all disappeared. Since he was going to get rid of me, he probably even left evidence to set me up.”

  “But what about Daragon?” Teresa suggested. “Why can't you just explain what really happened? Talk to him—”

  Eduard hung his head. “After . . . it happened, before I knew what to do, Daragon saw me. He's probably called in BTL reinforcements by now.” He looked around, haunted. “By now, he believes I betrayed him in the worst possible way. He'll never let me tarnish the image of his great mentor. None of the fanatical Beetles would. I'll be ‘accidentally' killed during my arrest.”

  Teresa said in a firm voice, “Then we've got to do something for you—right now.”

  With swollen fingers, Garth grabbed his hand. “If you've got the BTL after you, and you can't use COM, what are you going to do? How are you going to get out of this?”

  “Good question,” Eduard said. “Any ideas?”

  Garth dug into the purse slung over his shoulder and hauled out his account card. He transferred a large balance onto a blank voucher. “Unmarked credits, same as cash, so don't lose them. You can spend them without leaving a trail. Use them to go far, and be safe. Get away from the city.”

  Eduard's eyes widened at the amount. “Is this some of Ob's money?”

  “He cut off my stipend as soon as my first exhibition was successful. And another gallery paid me in advance for the rights to showcase my next work . . . if I ever get it finished, that is.”

  “I can't repay you.” Eduard's red-rimmed eyes glistened, and h
e squeezed Garth's shoulder with a shaky hand. “I can't even thank you enough. Not for something like this.”

  “Don't be ridiculous, I can spare it.” Garth's throat thickened with emotion, and the hormone storm in his pregnant body intensified the response. “You helped me out when I needed it. When I was struggling to be an artist, I survived because of your generosity whenever you got a big payoff. Now it's my turn. And don't you dare argue.”

  Teresa fixed her large eyes on Eduard, and he saw something in her expression. “I don't have any money for you, Eduard, but let me do something else. I'm offering you my body . . . literally. Swap with me, and run. Get away, use me as a disguise. It'll throw them for a little while.”

  Eduard flinched. “Teresa, you can't! The Beetles have my ID, my fingerprints, my blood type, my COM accounts.”

  She jabbed a finger toward his chest. “They're looking for this home-body. For you. You saved me from Rhys and before that you rescued me from that fugitive in the flower market. Don't argue now.” Arthur had not let her repay him before he died, and she needed to do this for Eduard.

  “Teresa, you don't want this mess.” Eduard held up a shaking hand. “My body might already be irreparably damaged, thanks to what Ob did to me. Even best-case, you'll probably go through a horrendous withdrawal.”

  But she would not be swayed. “Oh, this isn't even my original body, Eduard. This body or that—it doesn't matter to me, if it's not the right one. But it may mean the difference between life and death for you. I'll take care of yours, make it healthy again, if I can.” She grasped his hand with an iron grip. “Hopscotch now, Eduard. I insist.” He tried to back away, but she forced herself upon him. “You don't have any other options. And you know you'd do it for me if our roles were reversed.”

  They touched. Swapped.

  After synching their ID patches, Teresa stared at herself across the table. She felt his strung-out body, the aches, the drug-induced damage to his nerves and reflexes. She reached for her tart drink, hoping it would burn the awful drug aftertaste from her mouth.