Pashnak's lips trembled. “Sure, but now that you understand it, you won't live to express it as art. Garth, you have to stay alive!” He nearly shouted the last sentence. For a long time, wrapped up in business matters, he had tried to ignore Garth's growing malaise, chalking it up to another mood swing, an oscillation of the artistic temperament. Now, though, his eyes flashing with anger and dismay, Pashnak paced the library. “You've always been selfless and giving, generous with your money. You experienced everything, suffered all the foibles and problems people can have, shouldered that burden just so you could contribute back to humanity through your art.”
“Yeah, but this time I did it for a friend.” Garth's eyes shone. “That's even better.”
Suddenly, the library's filmscreen burned bright as a transmission came in. A selectively highlighted COMnews broadcast, sorted by Garth's priority filters. Annoyed, Pashnak got up to blank it, not wanting to lose one of his precious moments with Garth, but the artist raised a trembling hand. “Wait.”
A story about Eduard. A news-download, a special report, a breaking story. He knew it even before the details scrolled across the screen. “Oh no.”
Sharp video images showed a BTL action, some kind of crackdown at a local expansion-chip facility. Stun pellets peppered the walls of the building. Uniformed Bureau troops ran about, heads down, smashing glass and marching inside. Garth saw the neon-etched name on the front of the facility. Precision Chaos. Where Eduard had gone to find Teresa.
A spear of pain ripped through his lungs, his heart. He coughed, and tasted blood deep in his throat. The simulated announcer pattered his report, firing words like BTL gunshots. “The Bureau officers managed to take the target alive, with only minor injuries among their own ranks, thus marking the end to a long and bloody chase.” The reporter appeared suitably grim, his expression stern.
On the library screen, he and Pashnak stared as a stun-shackled Eduard, wearing Garth's familiar home-body, was hauled toward an armored hovervan, apprehended after a “flawless Bureau operation.” COMnews reporters clustered around BTL Inspector Daragon Swan, the person in charge of the long manhunt, but Daragon brushed them aside, ignoring the attention, and staggered to his private vehicle. He looked sick.
All available evidence had already been submitted before an “impartial” jury panel, and in the face of such overwhelming evidence they'd had no choice but to find Eduard guilty. Once apprehended, the prisoner was currently being interviewed behind closed doors, and the BTL had already denied appeals. Months ago, Eduard Swan had been sentenced to COM upload by the Bureau of Incarceration and Executions.
Weak-kneed with despair, Pashnak leaned against the sofa. “Ah, no. This can't be! Now what is it for? You've sacrificed yourself for nothing, Garth. Eduard's going to be executed—we've got to get your home-body back.”
The artist lay back, stunned and speechless in his failing body. He felt no strength at all now.
The COM screens faded to gray-black static. Behind the nothingness a face resolved itself, the weathered but compassionate face of a bald woman. She gazed out from the depths of the computer/organic matrix as if it were a window. She spoke directly to the dying form sprawled on the sofa. “Garth, little Swan, I can do nothing to help him.” Then the image faded completely into static.
Garth had witnessed a terrorist's execution many years earlier, back at the artists' bazaar. Was COM really a “sweatshop of souls,” as the justice system insisted? The Splinters hadn't thought so. He remembered Soft Stone's wondrous “death” when she had voluntarily uploaded herself from the Falling Leaves library. And now she was here.
Garth tore the silkweave afghan away from his skeletal body. Startled, Pashnak bent over, attempting to mother him. “Garth, you've got to lie down! Don't exert yourself.”
Instead, Garth pushed him away and placed his feet on the floor, wobbling, as if his legs were splintered chunks of wood. He could barely stand, maintaining his balance as he feebly pushed the assistant away.
“No, I've got to do something.” Garth wheezed, then coughed a splash of blood, but he swore that he wouldn't let himself die yet. “I've got a little more life left, even in this body.”
He held out a trembling hand, insisted that Pashnak help him across the room. “You won't make it down the sidewalk, let alone to Eduard! Please let me call a medical center now—your identity doesn't matter anymore.” Pashnak wrung his hands, unable to stifle his despair. “Eduard's already caught!”
“Yes, Eduard's caught. That's the only thing that matters. I've got to go to him, make some sort of plan.”
“Maybe you'll get your body back. The BTL will return it to you, won't they? Daragon knows it's yours.”
“And he also knows I'm an accomplice, then. They'll impound it, go through the standard routine. I won't last long enough for all the red tape.”
Then, realizing what he could do, he decided upon it immediately. He wiped a bony wrist across his chapped, blood-flecked lips. He would give one last thing to his friend.
Soon, Eduard would be on the auction block in Garth's strong, blond-haired body. Convicted criminals had to sacrifice their physiques as well as their lives. People would bid to hopscotch into his body permanently, leaving Eduard to die in a weak, used-up form. Garth had enough credits to outbid anyone else at the auction. If he could just make it there in time.
He looked at the bookshelf in the library, the treasured tomes resting on a broad oak shelf just above the laser fireplace. He ran his gaze along the spines of the Dickens titles, and smiled wistfully.
“Garth, what are you thinking?” Pashnak sounded concerned and suspicious. “I don't like the look in your eyes.”
Garth smiled at his assistant, content. As soon as the artist spoke, Pashnak's eyes went wide in horror. He understood exactly what Garth planned to do, how he would save Eduard.
“It is a far, far better thing I do . . .”
63
Stunned by what had happened to Eduard and feeling completely helpless, Teresa went to the one place that had offered her consistent comfort in the past. In despair, she made her way to the Falling Leaves.
In one brief and tragic morning, the foundations of her world had been torn from her. After such a long search, she had discovered that her original body no longer existed. Worse, because she had asked for Daragon's help in her quest, she had unwittingly led him to Eduard. She had tried to defend her friend, but she had ultimately failed. The Beetles had swallowed him up. Daragon had turned against her, and now Eduard was lost.
“Your priorities are all screwed up, don't you think?” she said to herself.
Not anymore. She would acquire a clearer focus. She had to.
So she walked along the streets, unable to take pleasure in her rangy body. Her new skin was dark, her eyesight sharp, her senses tingling. How had everything gotten so mixed up? She staggered ahead, finding her way. Teresa had always had trouble finding her own way.
The monastery's massive wooden door stood shut in front of her, ornately carved and impenetrable. Her loud knock reverberated through the remodeled brewery. Each pounding knock released warm childhood memories and nostalgic times. Teresa longed for those days. But everything was different now.
Finally, the heavy door opened to reveal an unfamiliar young face. “I'm Teresa Swan. I used to live here,” she said. “I need to see the administrator. Can you take me to Chocolate, do you think?”
Inside the archway, she noticed black streamers and crepe hung from the lintel. She reached up to touch the dark fabric, running her fingertips along the weave. The streamers signified mourning.
The young man's eyes widened. “You'd better follow me. Come this way.” He turned his back and hurried down the corridor. She remembered the courtyard garden, the sleeping quarters, and the marvelous library filled with artwork, books, and COM terminals.
Inside, additional black banners hung from alcoves. Many of the beeswax candles had gone out; the floors looked as if they h
adn't been scrubbed in days. Soft Stone would never have allowed anything like that to happen. . . .
She found the administrator's office empty, the COM screen switched off, papers and notes in disarray. Chocolate's desk and chair looked as if they hadn't been used in days. “Wait here,” the young man said. “I need to fetch him from the garden. Your name is Teresa, you said?”
She nodded and continued to stare into the office, a feeling of dread taking hold of her. “Can you tell me what's wrong? Why are you grieving? Where are all the Splinters?”
The young monk looked at her, his expression lost. “They're all at the funeral preparations for Chocolate. We've got . . . we've got plenty to do that we weren't expecting.” Preoccupied, he fled back down the hall in tears.
Teresa put a hand to her mouth. “Chocolate is dead?” Her voice was husky with disbelief.
Finally, the young man returned with stern Hickory in his wake. Seeing the familiar, if unwelcoming, face, Teresa took a step toward him. Hickory assessed her new, athletic form with an expression of clear disapproval—but then, he disapproved of almost everything. “You're Teresa?” His pinched face loosened into an expression that, though not an outright smile, was at least less stern. “Not many people come back, but frankly I'm surprised it took you so long.”
Teresa still couldn't get used to the surprising news about the roly-poly administrator. “Did Chocolate upload himself into COM? Like Soft Stone did?” She didn't understand the black banners, the dark crepe of mourning. “Why is everyone so sad?”
Hickory scowled. “No, Chocolate died in his sleep, before he could schedule his upload ceremony. We didn't expect that, and now he's gone.” Hickory crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at her for a moment. Then his expression fell. Tears sparkled in his eyes. “His soul is lost. He'll never be able to sail the data streams with his brothers and sisters. He . . . we waited too long.”
Teresa took the news like a physical blow.
Her life had been such a long journey without a map, full of blind turns and dead ends. She had always expected to find clear-cut solutions, black-and-white answers, if only she kept asking. Maybe there were no answers to be had. Teresa had to find her own solutions, not just ask somebody else.
Standing by herself, she finally managed to put the pieces together: A person determined her worth by what she did and how she lived her life, not by which body she had, which form she held, which skin she inhabited.
Finally it clicked what old Arthur had been trying to tell her—the soul and the body were together but separate. Changing bodies did not change a person. Altering her appearance didn't alter who she was. Teresa's free will, her actions and her thoughts, were the things that made her an individual.
All along she had been obsessed with irrelevant worries, the wrong problems. . . .
Later, she returned bearing baskets of fresh-cut flowers for the funeral. Standing among the Splinters who were now all strangers to her, she remained long enough to say her farewells to the roly-poly, good-natured man. Chocolate was gone. Like Soft Stone. Like Arthur.
Like Eduard would be very soon.
Willingly this time, knowing the world was waiting for her, Teresa left the monastery. Many of the Splinters came to bid her farewell, but she walked away down the street, knowing in her heart that this was the last time she would ever return to the Falling Leaves.
64
Meat market. Eduard seethed in silence as they prepared him for display, ready for sale to the highest, most desperate bidder.
The BTL had refused to listen to him about Garth, denied him the right to trade back into the ailing man's body. This physique was impounded. Besides, if they had let him swap back into the dying old physique, who would ever bid on it? He might not even survive long enough for the upload execution.
But no one would listen. Daragon had sequestered himself, and one of the other Beetles had told him to be quiet. Eduard stopped insisting. By now, Garth might already be dead. He had never meant for that to happen.
The Bureau of Incarceration and Executions efficiently continued the process of disposing of everything Eduard had, everything he was, erasing every positive mark he had made in his life. It was a first humiliation, what they considered a necessary step to prepare for his elimination.
His ID patch had been reset to his old identity, which now listed all the convictions against him. Most of them were laughably false, but he saw no point in fighting them. Long before he'd been captured, his bogus trial was already over, convicted in absentia, the guilty verdict etched in stone. Daragon had obviously chosen sides, and politics in the Bureau would prevent him from exposing any damning evidence against Mordecai Ob. Nothing Eduard said would convince them otherwise. Why bother to look for proof, when you already know the answer?
As BIE handlers stripped and prepped the fine, strong body Garth had given him, he remained just cooperative enough to avoid harsh treatment. Now, both Garth and Teresa had paid with their bodies for his mistakes. He regretted so much. . . .
The handlers scrubbed him down and oiled his skin. He shook his dripping blond hair, and they combed it for him again. They wanted him to look as clean and perfect as possible to bring a good price. Some lucky bidder would have a new life, perhaps a terminally ill patient or someone old and decrepit.
They would use Scramble on him, if necessary. Trapped in a discardable, unwanted form, Eduard's soul would be ripped from his body and added to the ever-growing COM to benefit all humankind. Mental abilities were a resource to be tapped, brainpower for the masses. Felons like Eduard contributed back to society by increasing the overall scope of COM, adding to the nonsentient computer labor force.
Quite a contrast with what the Splinters believed, but Eduard took no comfort from it. They didn't know about Soft Stone. He would find out soon enough, after the handlers made a good show of selling his body. Garth's body.
A uniformed official ran a sensor over his skin, taking tissue samples and sniffing cellular residue. After a medical scan pronounced him free of diseases and contaminants, clean of all evidence of drug addiction (Eduard had to laugh at the irony!), the data was sent to available screens in the bidding room outside.
Under normal circumstances, prospective purchasers would have days to consider him, but because of Eduard's high-profile case, they intended to rush him through. Keep the ratings up. The bidding among an exclusive pool of prospective buyers would reach a frenzy, no matter what they did.
When they led him toward the stage, one guard squeezed his arm muscle. He looked Eduard up and down as if he were a piece of furniture and remarked to his partner, “Fine specimen, eh? Most of our terminal guests are worn out.” The guard chuckled. “If I was in worse shape, I might even bid for you myself.”
“You couldn't afford what I'm worth,” Eduard said.
The guard snapped back, “As a body maybe not. As a person—well, I've got some loose change.”
Floor lights indicated where he had to go. Trying to look haughty, Eduard stepped out into a roomful of hopeful people, from the curious to the desperate. A transparent, flickering field separated him from the crowd.
His eyes hardened, an unaccustomed expression on Garth's normally welcoming face. The limited pool of bidders stared at him, and he stared right back without flinching. He'd never seen such a batch of old and hurting people. All of them rich. Misfits. Vultures.
None of these people deserved what Garth had sacrificed for him. Not one of them.
Then the spotlights shone hot and white from all angles, illuminating his skin, his muscles, every part of his body. The customers were offering good money to live in this flesh, and they wanted a decent look. It was only fair.
“What you see is what you get.” Eduard tried to become a statue as the bidding started.
Standing in an observation alcove, Daragon watched from the background, disgusted. Since he was such a prominent Inspector, it was all part of his job—he had to see it through to the end.
Still, he was deeply troubled to see Eduard humiliated in such a way. Standing naked and defiant, the murderer of Mordecai Ob sizzled under the lights. Though he could see Eduard's persona on the inside, glowing in its familiar pattern, he still saw only Garth's body on the outside.
The Bureau had kept Daragon isolated since the apprehension at Precision Chaos, and they had not yet traced the identity of the body back to Garth—or so they said. But Daragon understood all too clearly what must have happened.
Why had the successful artist gone out of his way to help a wanted fugitive? Daragon had kept that part quiet, trying to protect Garth. He had so much to lose—yet Garth had defended Eduard without question, and Teresa had thrown herself into mortal danger to protect him. Why? Why? How strong were the obligations of friendship, when the law was so clear?
Daragon knew he had to be very, very careful. Though Garth and Teresa must surely hate him, he still wanted to protect them, whether they realized it or not. He had always kept an eye on them, protecting them from their own mistakes. Now, though, they were at risk of making things worse for everyone.
The new BTL administrators wanted to make their mark. They would let nothing mar their triumph over capturing and punishing the man who had murdered Mordecai Ob. Knowing Garth was an accomplice, knowing how the BTL would react, Daragon had no choice but to keep his secret, for Garth's sake. But that was as far as his loyalty would go.
Right now, he hoped the auction would pass quietly, before anyone recognized the home-body of the famous artist.
Standing silently, he watched like a hawk as the limited group of invited bidders pushed forward, keying credit requests into handheld COM units. As the furious bidding climbed higher, Eduard stared boldly at them, impervious to their frenzy. That seemed to intrigue them even more.
Automated newscams captured the spectacle, broadcasting it realtime to COM channels, where the images were split and sent to various commentary groups, all of which found their own soapboxes and drew their own conclusions.
Hopscotch Page 35