Did any of that matter?
Maybe Arthur would have approved. Maybe not. Teresa had to make her own choice. Right now, any change seemed for the better, movement in the right direction rather than a crashing halt.
Teresa took a deep breath while Jennika stood there in stained overalls, waiting for her decision. Eduard's muscles and nerves had recovered completely from the destructive addiction, though right now she felt as shaky as she'd been during the Rush-X withdrawal. Jennika was sleek and athletic and strong, vibrant, full of energy. It would be a more than fair trade.
Teresa stepped forward, lifting her head high. “We'd better do this before I change my mind, don't you think?”
After she hopscotched with Jennika and synched ID patches, Teresa settled into her new body, establishing her muscle control. With a glint of delight in her dark eyes, she took a moment of total concentration just to assess the differences again. She felt the indescribable changes inside, the rapid-fire nerves in erogenous zones along her skin, the feminine chemistry within her. Teresa was amazed at how wonderful it was to be female again.
“I can work with this,” Jennika said, standing now in Eduard's body, her voice deeper. “It'll do just fine.”
Armed with the information from Jax, Daragon disembarked from the BTL hovercar and walked the rest of the way to Precision Chaos to see what he could learn in person. Perhaps Teresa's home-body was still there. Once he knew the answers, he would go to her. After the disastrous events of the previous night, he needed to do something good for a change. Something for which Teresa would thank him.
He walked down the street with a stiff, quick stride. He had no need of maps or COM guidance—he had already memorized the way. As he approached Precision Chaos, he paid little attention to a statuesque black woman who emerged from the front. She paused, but Daragon was used to that, since most people flinched upon seeing a BTL Inspector.
Then she raised a hand in greeting. “Daragon!”
He looked past her hard but beautiful face, her athletic body, and into her shimmering persona. “Teresa!” Then his hope evaporated. “So you already know.” He stepped close, his eyes searching, but he saw only sadness there. “You didn't find what you needed?”
She shook her head and allowed herself to flow forward until he self-consciously wrapped her in a stiff embrace. “I'm too late. It's gone . . . gone.”
He tried to be warm and responsive, but it was difficult to break through the BTL training. “You probably don't believe me, Teresa, but I grieve for your loss. I won't kid you by saying that I understand—I can't, since I've never even been able to leave my body—but I am sincerely sorry for you.”
She smiled at him, an expression that was oh-so-Teresa even in this stranger's body. “I believe you, Daragon. You never could hide your real feelings from me.” Then she gazed deeply at him, drawing away from his embrace. “Something else is wrong, isn't it? What's happened? Is it Eduard?”
In halting words, Daragon explained about how he had found his father at last, by accident, but the man was now dead. Self-consciously, he left Eduard out of the story. At first he started out formally, as if he were giving an official report to Mordecai Ob, but he let his feelings intrude.
Teresa found his bare-bones narrative heart-wrenching. Tears filled her eyes.
“So my father was a Phantom, a real-live Phantom.” Daragon tried to find his center of stability again. “I regret that I never got the chance to talk to him—to know him.”
This time it was her turn to offer comfort, though the uniformed Inspector didn't know how to accept it. But he needed this, needed Teresa to open up to him again, just like it had been at the Falling Leaves. He remained silent for a long time, rigid and seemingly afraid. Finally he asked, “Can we talk some more? Just talk . . . as if we were real friends again?”
Teresa considered cautiously. “Maybe we could have a drink at Club Masquerade.”
Daragon nodded. “Given a little time, we might both be able to heal our wounds.”
Teresa thought with misty-eyed fondness of the innocent times they'd had together at the monastery . . . and wondered if it would ever be possible to give Daragon what he asked. After so much time, so much life.
Racing through the back streets, knowing he had to hurry, Eduard arrived at the small industrial building. Though he wore Garth's broad-shouldered, blond-haired body, he still moved furtively. He could have escaped to freedom at any time, but he would not do that to his friend. And he needed one last chance to see Teresa.
He approached Precision Chaos from the rear. If Teresa was here, he had to find a discreet way to get inside. He found a shipping entrance, where a posted sign instructed all visitors to use the front doorway. Ignoring the placard, he slipped through the entrance.
Feeling completely out of place, Eduard scanned the faces, trying to find Teresa. He knew damned well he'd be able to spot the face he had worn for so many years. No problem. He grieved for the Rush-X hell he must have put her through, and he ached with love for what she had done for him.
The fabrication complex hummed around him, full of machine sounds, manufacturing smells, and droning orders over the implanted speakers. He snooped about, walking past workstations, looking at faces and wearing a haughty I-belong-here expression. His masquerade did the trick, and no one challenged him as he searched from one person to another. Perhaps he had gotten here too late. He put his hands on his hips and did a slow turn. Where could she be?
Finally, with a weird dislocated thrill, Eduard spotted himself, his own home-body. He hadn't recognized it at first behind the red goggles and a grimy work jumpsuit. Teresa had been wearing that body, taking care of it for him—had she gotten a job here, at a dirty, hot expansion-chip facility? Why had she given up her joyful job with the florists for something like this?
“Teresa, it's me, Eduard.” She pulled off her goggles, looking at him with no recognition. “Hey, don't let Garth's body fool you. I need to talk to you.”
His own eyes looked back at him curiously before sudden understanding flooded across the face. “Oh—you're looking for Teresa. She just swapped with me.” She grabbed his arm with a gloved hand. “Come quick. Maybe we can still catch her.”
Together, he and Jennika hurried to the front entrance of Precision Chaos. Pulling open the door, the woman gazed out at the long street ahead, said, “Good, she's still here,” then yelled, “Yo, Teresa! Someone to see you!”
She shouted again at the top of her lungs—as Eduard froze in horror.
Deep in conversation with Daragon, Teresa heard her name and turned. At the main doorway of the facility, she recognized two people: the male body she had worn until a few moments ago, and a big blond-haired man. “Garth! What are you doing here?”
But Daragon saw a lot more. His eyes met Eduard's across the distance, recognized him. Without thinking, he triggered an emergency alarm from a transmitter on his belt. “That's not Garth.”
Desperate, trapped, Eduard grabbed the woman beside him. Garth was still in the old man's decrepit and dying body back in his home, and Eduard had promised to return. He couldn't let his friend make that sacrifice. It wasn't just his own life he was trying to save now. The artist had never intended for Eduard to escape, to run away with his healthy body—
Or had Garth intended that all along?
The frantic thought of using Jennika as a hostage streaked like a flare through his mind, but he shoved her away, disgusted with himself for even considering the option. He recalled how he had despised the anti-COM terrorist who'd done the same thing to Teresa in the flower market, long ago.
More annoyed than frightened, Jennika reeled, not understanding what was going on.
Daragon drew his weapon.
Eduard bolted back through the door into the industrial facility, where he hoped he could hide.
Boldly, Teresa used her body's new strength to chop down on Daragon's wrist, knocking the weapon out of the way. “Leave him alone!” She sprint
ed for the building, thinking only of Eduard.
“Teresa, he's a cold-blooded murderer,” Daragon said.
“He's also my friend! Are you sure your Mr. Ob wasn't the cold-blooded one?”
Leaving Jennika on the threshold upset and baffled by the sudden activity, Eduard flew through the doorway. Daragon retrieved his weapon from the ground and ran toward Teresa, his face flushed, his eyes set. She did her best to cut him off, but he easily pushed past her.
Inside the facility, Precision Chaos workers kept at their jobs, oblivious to the emergency. Eduard ran past desks and COM terminals toward the cluttered rear, seeking refuge among the heavy machinery, the crates of supplies and shipping materials. Perhaps he could slip through the back door before the Beetles arrived.
When he heard the whine of approaching BTL patrol hovercraft and backup assault chopters, he knew that would be impossible.
Outside, Daragon spoke into his lapel communicator, coordinating the rapidly arriving teams. “Surround the building. I want surveillance craft and armed personnel at every exit, every window, every exhaust pipe. Stun darts only—I'll have the badge of anyone who disobeys me this time.”
His quarry had appeared like a miracle, at last, and Daragon—Inspector Daragon Swan—had to forget about Teresa, forget about their past and how much she had meant to him. Now there would be no reconciliation between them.
He had made his choice.
“I want an orderly evacuation of the employees inside—one person at a time.” He turned to two uniformed BTL guards who dropped out of a hovercraft and rushed into position. “Eduard is trapped in there, and I want it to stay that way. Nobody comes out without me looking at them with my own eyes.”
As the net closed around the building, Teresa pushed past an angry Jennika and into the facility. “Eduard! Eduard, they've got the building surrounded.”
Amplifiers boomed so loudly that the walls of the facility vibrated. “All legitimate employees must leave the building. Use the front entrance only. All other exits are guarded and off limits. Do not attempt to deviate from these instructions or you will be fired upon.”
Intimidated and confused, workers trotted toward the front doors, yanking off protective gloves and goggles. But Teresa elbowed past them, fighting her way against the flow. Her new legs were long, her muscles tight and resilient. “Eduard!” she called, looking everywhere for his big blond form.
Daragon's voice came over the BTL loudspeakers. “Teresa, come out of there. Let me handle this!”
Eduard ran between banks of thermal etchers, vacuum chambers, and sealed presses. Hot IR ovens throbbed, baking and pre-etching sapphire-coated silicon composites. Gas hissed, and ventilation hoods whistled as toxic vapors flowed through scrubbers.
He ducked low, nearly deafened by the hydraulics in a multiple-strike micropress. Jumpsuited workers hustled to evacuate, and he could smell the heavy claustrophobic fear mixed with processed industrial smells. People shouted or whispered as they filed toward the exit through a gauntlet of Beetles.
Eduard could never mix in with them and get out that way, not while Daragon watched with his eerie second-sight. Right now he could hear the chopters, gruff orders transmitted from Beetle to Beetle, the rumble of heavy feet on the roof. The side door slammed open and more armored apprehension specialists entered. Eduard glided to deeper shadows near another piece of heavy machinery. He had no place else to go.
Daragon marched through the front door, directing the assault. He instructed guards to remain among the evacuated workers milling about outside. “We might need to interrogate them later.”
An officer looked at him. “There's no way he can get out of this, Inspector.”
Daragon brushed him aside. “I'll believe that when we have him in custody—alive—and not before.”
Inside, Teresa scuttled into the equipment area, reaching the lunchroom. She kept herself low, taking advantage of whatever cover she could find. She used tables and plastic chairs as camouflage, though none of it would protect her from direct gunfire. She searched for Eduard on the garishly lit industrial floor. “Eduard, oh give yourself up before you get killed!”
As soon as she spoke, the Beetles turned toward her voice, and Teresa dove under a table. Keyed up, two startled guards opened fire in a reflexive action. The synthetic wood laminate and brightly colored plastic table became a porcupine of stun darts.
Enraged, Eduard popped out of his refuge. “Don't shoot at her, you stupid bastards!” More shots rang out, targeting him this time.
Using a voice enhancer at his collar, Daragon bellowed into the ringing background noise. “Eduard, give yourself up—please don't let this go any further. You'll only make it harder.” He gestured for backup troops to fan out, scuttling across the floor.
“I'm sorry, Daragon, but your past behavior doesn't inspire much confidence,” Eduard called with a cynical laugh. “I've seen you gun down at least two innocent people while you were trying to catch me. Two people who had nothing to do with the crime you want me for.” He paused a beat, knowing the Inspector must be wrestling with a response. He said, taunting, “Who exactly is the murderer around here? Or are there different standards for BTL troops?”
In response, several hot-blooded apprehension specialists opened fire again. Stun pellets pinged off the machinery that shielded him. Silver starburst scratches blossomed on painted housings; nicks appeared in thick glass containment ports.
Both Daragon and Teresa screamed for the shooting to stop. Whining ricochets sang through the air, chipping more glass.
“This is Garth's body, Daragon,” Eduard shouted. “I've got to make sure he gets it back. You have to promise me that.”
Another Beetle answered in a gruff voice, “That body is confiscated property, by law. The BTL does not make deals with—”
“Shut up!” Daragon said, then lowered his voice. “Not now.”
From where she crouched under the shelter of an administrative desk, Teresa could see Eduard slip toward curling acid-brown vapors that leaked from a breached containment chamber. He coughed while running for cover, using the thick fumes as a smokescreen.
Teresa knocked a broken table aside. She saw warning labels on the equipment—TOXIC HAZARDS, HIGHLY CORROSIVE CHEMICALS—and remembered what had happened to her original body. She had no time to think, no time to plan. Moving as fast as her new athletic legs could piston, she launched across the open space toward him.
The etching chamber had been blasted open by stray projectiles, and caustic gas hissed out like a smokescreen. Eduard stumbled toward it, ignorant of the hazard, intent only on escaping.
Teresa struck him like a cannonball, knocking the big-shouldered man across the syncrete floor. He'd done the same for her, long ago, to save her during a shootout in the flower market.
“There he is!” a Beetle shouted. She heard weapons clicking, aiming.
Just above their heads, external paint on the equipment bubbled and peeled from exposure to the thick, deadly vapor.
Teresa lay across Garth's blond form, shielding Eduard with her own lithe body. “Don't shoot! Hold your fire!”
Eduard writhed on the floor, trying to push her off. “Teresa, get away from me!” He scrambled to his feet as Teresa dove toward him again to protect him, but Eduard held his arms out, totally exposed now. “I won't let you stand in the crossfire for me. Not you, Teresa.”
He glared at the armed troops cautiously approaching him. “I surrender.” He raised his hands. “Or do you plan to just shoot me down where I stand?”
Some Beetles looked as if they might have been tempted, but Daragon drove them back. Eduard stood tall as he glared at his adversary, his friend.
The look on Daragon's face was not one of triumph. Far from it.
62
With all the love he possessed, Pashnak tended Garth's ailing body as he dwindled toward death. He dimmed the library lights, turned the laser fireplace on high, knelt beside the sofa. His mind whirled as
he tried to make the artist more comfortable, to make him recuperate. Somehow.
As he had feared, they had heard nothing from Eduard in hours. “He's run off, Garth. He has your body now, and he won't come back until it's too late.”
“Pashnak, don't be dense. That's what I wanted him to do in the first place.” Garth turned his head on the pillow. “We'll just stay here. That's the best thing.” Pashnak looked down intently at the shriveled, gray-skinned body of the man he had served so long and so well. “You're always so good to me.”
The assistant fought back tears. “I just wish you treated yourself better.”
With a gnarled hand, he patted Pashnak's wrist. “This is my decision. Don't pester me about it.” Garth smiled up at him, and Pashnak saw a bleary haze of contentment he hadn't seen on the artist in far too long. “I can't think of any better way to top off my career than to help my friend. A crowning achievement.”
Pashnak bit his lower lip, holding back a moan. “How can you say that?” He wished he had never let Eduard inside the house, never even answered the door call. If only he had turned away the sick old fugitive, that would have been the end of the matter. “Think of all the ideas you can still have, the exhibitions, the—” His voice cracked. “All the books we still have to read out loud to each other!”
Lying back, propped on the pillows, Garth studied the syn-oak moldings on the ceiling. “Ah, let's leave it at that. I did some great work, didn't I?” He closed his eyes and let his wrinkled face settle into a sigh. “As long as I saved Eduard, it was worth it.”
He shifted on the pillows, drawing a breath that felt like shrapnel in his chest. Pashnak still hovered beside him, as if wondering whether he should make more coffee. Garth said, “Now here's a new experience I never managed before—heroism and self-sacrifice. Probably the noblest part of being human.”
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