He heard a door crash open far behind and above him. Armored feet pounded down the stairs. Lights blazed into the murky darkness, making everyone shield their eyes. Two brief bursts of gunfire rang out, but Eduard didn't slow for a second.
He found a ladder up to an access hatch. He scrambled up, hand over hand, gripping the cold rungs. His hands and legs shuddered from exhaustion, stretched taut. He climbed into the night, letting the hatch slam behind him. He cursed the noise, which would surely give away his position.
He bypassed the densest alleys and rundown buildings and found himself on the periphery of a large sprawling park that bordered the business district. He fled, leaving footprints on the damp grass. Firefly lights hung from cables strung from tree to tree, enough illumination to deter criminals but not so much that it ruined the serenity of the park. Insects swirled around the globes.
Eduard kept to the shadows, but he didn't know how much farther he could go. He passed a nighttime jogger and a couple cuddling on a bench, but he kept running. They had seen him and would report his position. The Beetles couldn't be far behind.
Ahead he saw an old man sitting on a park bench with a sack cradled in his lap. He reached in with a gnarled hand and tossed phosphorescent crumbs like lightning bugs into the air. Dark shapes swooped around—trained bats that gulped the bread crumbs out of the air. The old man dipped into the bag again and tossed another glittering handful. The dive-bombing bats snatched the morsels before they could fall to the ground.
Eduard skidded to a halt, panting. The old man looked at him with a pleasant smile, unperturbed by his urgency. “Good evening.”
“Please,” Eduard gasped. “I know this is a crazy request, but would you swap with me? Take this body. Keep it. It's younger than yours and healthy enough. Good trade.”
The old man raised a set of thin eyebrows, and Eduard backed off. He had to keep running if this man wouldn't agree. “I have nothing to offer you. No money. No reason to convince you. It's just that I'm desperate, and I need to get away. This could confuse them for hours.”
The old man rolled up the sack, though the phosphorescent bread crumbs continued to shine through the paper bag like a Japanese lantern. “That body of yours might have a few more miles left on it than mine does. You sure you want to do this?”
Eduard paused, one foot raised, ready to run again. “Yes! Completely sure!” He touched the old man's temples, looked into his tired eyes and felt the rushing and drowning sensation as their personalities switched. He stood up from the bench, orienting himself to the new physique.
He could feel arthritis and sore muscles, but that didn't concern him. This body felt no worse than the other one had, not stressed to its limits by terror and exhaustion. He turned, anxious to get away.
“Wait,” the old man said, sitting down in Eduard's rail-thin former body, suddenly trying to catch his breath. “Hand me my bugcrumbs, please.” He took the glowing bag while Eduard tottered off. “Hey, we didn't synch our ID patches.”
Eduard froze for a terrified instant of indecision, then heard the Beetles coming. The old man didn't seem bothered. “Never mind, I'll be here. Just circle around and come back later.”
Eduard bolted, ducking low to slip into the hedge shadows. He heard shouts behind him in the park. Spotlights from cruising shapes in the sky skewered anyone moving in the park. Eduard pushed through the thick boughs until he reached an open street and lights and other pedestrians. He tried not to look as if he were running. It would take a while for them to figure it out.
He heard gunshots and shouts, then Daragon's booming voice. Eduard hoped the old man would be all right as he vanished into the swirl of the street.
Rushing forward, his breath short and sharp, Daragon raced to accompany the squad. Though the apprehension specialists had been armed only with stun pellets, he wanted to be there when they captured Eduard. Overhead, surveillance chopters blasted lights down, set off their sirens. They had found him! BTL shock troops swarmed into the park, converging near a pond.
Hearing shouts, Daragon ran faster. “Eduard!” he called, without a loudspeaker this time. “Don't let this go on—give up now!”
Anxious, the Beetles charged toward the park bench where a rail-thin man sat alone, looking surprised and confused. He tossed a handful of sparkling crumbs into the air.
“Look out!” one of the officers shouted, and opened fire.
A cloud of stun pellets rained all around the man. The ensuing spatter of shots threw him backward over the bench. A spray of phosphorescent morsels flew into the air. The weapons fire continued, as if each BTL pursuer wanted to put a dozen darts into the fugitive.
Daragon shouted in dismay. He dropped to his knees beside the body they had pegged as Eduard. The man had become a pincushion, peppered with a hundred times the lethal number of stun pellets.
“Look at the ID patch,” one trooper said, grabbing the victim's spasming hand. “It's Eduard, all right.”
Daragon stared at the contorted face, his wide eyes, his quivering lips. He looked and looked, but saw the wrong persona.
“This isn't him. You shot the wrong man, idiots! This isn't Eduard!” He cradled the dying bystander, who surrendered a few last gasps, but managed no words.
Daragon continued to gaze deep into the old man's soul as it faded into darkness. Then he looked up and stared at the night shadows and the silent, sprawling park all around them, but Eduard was already gone.
Sickened and terrified, Eduard realized what had happened behind him. He hadn't intended for the old man to come to any harm, hadn't believed the Beetles would be so bloodthirsty. They should have talked with the old man, perhaps detained him briefly, and then learned their mistake. They weren't supposed to use deadly force! Hadn't they been charged with apprehending him, not just slaughtering anyone who stood in their way?
Daragon had promised him safety—even as they opened fire. So much for any lingering hopes of trusting his former friend. All bets were off.
Eduard slunk away into the night. Now, he didn't even have his ID patch anymore, but he could use the old man's COM access to get more money, until Daragon picked up the trail again. It wouldn't take him long.
The next day Eduard traded down again into another body and escaped. One more time.
50
After seeing Juanita Cole's debut exhibition, Garth felt another extremely talented artist breathing down his neck. It reminded him that he wouldn't be on top forever, jolted him with a sudden drive. He didn't want to lose a valuable moment. “Pashnak! It's time to reclaim some lost glory. Enough sitting around.”
The assistant loved to see the renewed enthusiasm after Garth's recent malaise. The artist had rushed through LOSS, put it into the exhibition hall that had contracted for his next work, then plunged into a new project. Garth bustled out of the studio, his hands scrubbed and wet.
“Set up a meeting with Stradley—he needs to start earning his commissions again.” Though still a commercial success, LOSS had drawn smaller crowds than the previous three works, and it had turned the artist's attention to composing a biting commentary on another side of human nature, APATHY. “He's been resting on our laurels for too damned long.”
Pashnak contacted the hype-meister's offices, requesting a conference. When his image sprang into focus, Stradley spoke without even taking a breath. “Is Garth finished with it yet? Please tell me that's what you're calling about. We've got people already waiting.”
“He's working like a maniac, Mr. Stradley. He asked me to set up an appointment with you. He wants to discuss some of the promotional efforts.”
Stradley frowned. “I hate it when creative types worry about business matters.” He glanced off to the side of the screen, already distracted by another emergency, another opportunity. “All right, send him around this afternoon. Three o'clock.”
“He'll appreciate this, Mr. Stradley.”
“Well, I'd appreciate it more if he spent his time working on his exhibition instead of talki
ng with me. I'm the one who's supposed to be doing the talking.”
Ideas bubbled in Garth's head as he waited in the lobby while the hype-meister finished last-minute arrangements for another client. The receptionist gave him a fizzy orange drink without being asked.
Stradley finally gestured for him to enter. Garth plopped into the self-form chair in front of the desk. Message lights blinked; handwritten notes lay draped on image cubes or tacked to the wall next to gaudy tropical images. Three COM filmscreens blazed at the same time, chewing through different subject-searches.
Garth rubbed his hands together. “After LOSS, I think we need to figure out a different strategy to make more waves when the new work comes out—”
“Garth, I should warn you I've got a busy afternoon.” Stradley looked pointedly at the chaos of ongoing plans scattered about his office. “You should remember too that Mr. Ob is no longer footing the bill for my services, nor is he able to apply BTL pressure on me.”
“Excuse me?” He stiffened. “I know Mr. Ob's patronage might have helped me get attention at first, but my exhibitions have been successful enough to line a lot of pockets. After all the commissions I've given you, I'd think you could spare a few minutes to talk about my career, my comeback.”
“Comeback? I didn't know you ever left the limelight. Sure, the LOSS numbers dipped a bit, but so what? You're on solid enough ground.”
“But I want to keep building, not take a step backward. We're going to have to continue pushing the envelope.”
The hype-meister sighed, as if perfectly familiar with the way this conversation was going to go. “Look, Garth, you're not the only client I have, and you're not the only client who makes me money. Right now, I just landed a hot follow-up contract for Juanita Cole that's going to require most of my resources. I don't have a whole lot of extra energy at this time.”
Garth reeled as if a bomb had just dropped on him. Folding his hands across his desk, shoving notes aside, Stradley explained in an oh-so-sincere voice, “I know what you're thinking, what you're feeling. I've seen a lot of careers.”
“Including mine.”
“Including yours. Every client is a challenge, every prospect a conquest to be made. But once the conquest is over, I've got to move on to take the next hill, develop a new property, make a new star.”
Garth frowned at him. “So, since my works are already sought after, you're no longer interested in hyping me?”
Stradley forcibly kept his hands folded in front of him so he wouldn't fidget or sort through unwanted messages. “It's already done, the battle won. I don't want to sit around and milk past accomplishments. What's the challenge? That isn't what I do.”
The receptionist popped her head through the doorway, signaling Stradley, but he waved her off. Garth wondered if the interruption had been staged. Give me ten minutes, then tell me I've got an important call. . . . “What more do you want, Garth? You're already on top of the world.”
“But I'm not done.” He thumped the heel of his palm on the free-form chair to keep it from making him too comfortable. “We've already got the public's attention, and we have to punch them in the gut harder than ever before!”
“And how are you going to make yourself interesting? Forgive the joke, my friend, but do you really expect the consumer base to be interested in a work called APATHY?” Stradley looked at him as if he were incredibly dense. “You're famous, Garth—get that through your head! Your work will never be ignored. Critics and viewers will come without being dragged. Publicity runs on autopilot for you. Juanita Cole is the one who needs my help right now. She's the skyrocket.”
Garth clenched his teeth, tasting sour orange from the fizzy drink he had finished while waiting. “So you just put my career on a shelf while you chase after another star.”
Stradley shook his head, and for the first time Garth saw real emotion behind the publicist's eyes. “Why do you think you need my services at all anymore, Garth? I'm helping someone else get to the level you're already at. I was there for you when you needed it, and now Juanita needs it a lot more than you do. She's my challenge and my passion—and in a few years, no doubt, I'll be having this same discussion with her, too.” He sighed and mumbled to himself, “Artists! They never learn.”
Feeling lost and disappointed, Garth stood, ready to leave. Stradley pawed through his gathered messages. “Look, Garth—Juanita's coming for a meeting in just a few minutes. I'd like you to meet her. You've seen her show, right? It would be a good idea for you two to talk. She's experienced your work, too, and was very impressed by it.”
Confusion buzzed around Garth. He backed toward the door. “No . . . no, sorry. Not interested.”
Stradley crossed his arms. “What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid? No, that's not it. I've got to get back to work.”
Stradley flicked his head back and forth as he scanned all three of his COM screens. “We're pushing the deadline on your new show, and it's got to be finished on time. Even if it is APATHY. Don't lose the brownie points you've earned from the past exhibitions.”
Garth departed from the hype-meister's offices. Juanita Cole was due to arrive at any moment, and he left in a hurry so he wouldn't risk meeting her.
51
Being so close to capture, for so long, made Eduard feel even more alive. Every moment passed with heightened awareness, deeper suspicion, faster reflexes . . . and frazzled nerves. He had to pay attention to everything.
But the stranger who reached out for him from the dim alley was a real master at stealth. The man touched his arm, and Eduard leaped aside, ready to whirl and fight, if necessary.
“Whoa, I'm not one of them!” the man snapped in a whisper. “Don't make a scene. Someone will notice.”
Eduard had learned the danger of drawing attention to himself. He froze. “What do you want?”
“Been watching you, rabbit. Come on, I want to save you—and protect myself.” The man had an average body, plain clothes, unremarkable features, and very, very bright eyes. “You're good, but not good enough.”
Grasping Eduard's elbow, the stranger led him toward the alley's private dimness. “You've got the potential to be one of us. Potential. But they're huntin' hard, and you could make it come crashing down. Can't let that happen. Gotta teach you what you've gotten yourself into, otherwise you muck it up.”
Eduard had acquired the narrow-eyed, skeptical gaze of a combat-weary jungle soldier, attuned to peripheral vision, senses heightened for anything out of the ordinary. He followed, but kept his distance. “You have no idea who I am. If you knew, you'd call the Beetles without a second thought.”
“Well, that's my other option, if you prove to be too dumb to be trained.” The stranger waited as a cluster of laughing athletes walked past on the nearby street, jostling each other. “You're Eduard, right? One of them Swans from the Splinter monastery?” He flashed his bright, bright eyes. “Must be crazy even to talk to a rabbit as hot as you. This manhunt has made my life a living hell, but I may as well show you what you're doing wrong. Live longer, both of us.”
Eduard found it hard to restrain himself. “I haven't done too badly alone.”
“One mistake can screw up everything. Just like your little mistake with Chief Ob. Or was that something you did on purpose?”
Eduard stared at him in disbelief. The man found this greatly amusing, and he laughed without making a sound. “I don't have any particular love for the BTL—especially not Mordecai Ob, so in a way you've done me quite a favor.” He glanced around, found a relatively clean spot in a recessed doorway, and squatted against the wall. “Do you know what I am?”
Eduard refused to lower his guard. “A crazy old man?”
Angry, the stranger jabbed a finger at Eduard. “I'm a Phantom. The only one you're ever likely to see.”
Eduard caught his breath. “A real Phantom? How old are you?”
“Spent the last two centuries outrunnin' death. By my reckoning, I'm two hundred
and thirty-seven years old. Does that count as a real Phantom?” The man spread his hands wide. “I call myself Artemis, though it's probably high time to change that name again. Guess it'll do for the moment.”
“And what do you know of Bureau Chief Ob?”
“I know that Inspector Ob almost caught me twenty years back. Closest I've ever come to having my balls clipped. I stole the body of some starving young artist, didn't know who she was, but Ob took it as a personal insult, came after me like an express train. Took me months to muddy the trail enough to shake him. For decades I've been hiding while Ob climbed the Bureau ladder.” He grinned. “But which one of us is still standing, eh?”
“Twenty years ago? And you think the Beetles are still after you?” Eduard couldn't believe it. “Does the word paranoia mean anything to you?”
Artemis glowered at him. “I know how to spot 'em, even with all their tricks. Here, let me show you one little thing that'll make you a believer. A true believer.” He scuttled off down the alley without looking over his shoulder, confident that Eduard would follow. He did.
Artemis ducked into a small street, where they went through the side entrance of a clothing shop. From there, the man took a lifter to the third level and across to an open food court.
“Go to those benches near the window and look outside onto the streets. Don't worry—the glass is mirrorized. I already checked. The only thing they can see is a reflection.”
“Who? Who can see?”
“Just look, rabbit!”
Feeling a sudden chill, Eduard peered through the broad window. Hovercars passed in interleaved lanes, people walked below, businesses went about their daily activities. Cloud shadows dappled the buildings. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“Pretty good, isn't it?” Artemis leaned close to his ear. His breath smelled of onions. “Look at that man on the corner, handin' out sandwich tokens.” He tapped the glass. “Does he really fit? And that woman holdin' blue balloons? Gotta know the crowd, see the patterns, understand how it all works, so you can pick out sharks ripplin' through the currents.”
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