Instead, she had been on a pointless quest for a body she had abandoned long ago, a body that was already dead. Her obsession with esoteric Big Questions and her lifelong searches for Universal Truths would mean nothing if she lost Eduard and Garth, people who loved her for who she was. Why hadn't she seen that before? Teresa swore not to let it fizzle without a fight.
Eduard was scheduled to be executed. He would be alone, but she had to find a way to be there. She could be present to support him, to help him . . . to offer her love if nothing else.
Eduard had saved her life more than once. He had shared her pain, helped her abused body heal, given her money when she needed it. Now she would help Eduard in whatever way she could.
Setting her jaw, Teresa headed off to the holding prison where Eduard waited out his last day.
67
So what else was money good for? Garth didn't worry about what he would do afterward. He didn't really think there would be any afterward. None of that mattered.
Now that Pashnak was gone, no one would watch out for him. The other man's death was still an open wound, a foolish sacrifice that Garth never should have allowed in the first place, and now he could not correct the mistake—except by going forward.
He clutched Madame Ruxton's name and address in his hand. If he could just spend the money, cut the deal, he would have no regrets.
The skyscraper condo-complex was unremarkable and drab, without character, the kind of building Garth could have passed repeatedly without ever noticing its presence. For a wealthy woman, Ruxton apparently squandered little of her wealth on extravagant luxuries.
Determined, he signaled at her door and waited, knowing she would be suspicious, perhaps even frightened, of a stranger. Garth had never been good at planning ahead, but he tried to rehearse what he might say to the old woman.
Ruxton's face appeared on the door screen, tired and pinched. She had pale skin untouched by makeup, clean hair in an unattractive but serviceable cut, and once-expensive clothes. According to public records, she lived alone, had numerous business acquaintances, few friends.
“What do you want?” she asked without unlocking the door. “Go away or I'll call security, and then my lawyers.”
“I'm an artist. My name is Garth Swan, and I'm here to offer you a lot of credits,” he said. Her reptilian eyes brightened, then narrowed in suspicion. His words tumbled out before she could say anything else. “You've got something I need, Madame Ruxton. Something I need very badly. I'll pay.”
Standing there in Pashnak's gaunt body, he looked far from intimidating. “How much money?” Her question told Garth a great deal. She hadn't even asked what he wanted, what he needed—just the amount he would pay.
“Twice what you bid for Eduard's body. Right now, in unmarked credits.”
The door opened immediately.
Surrounded by squarish, expensive furniture, cold wall prints, and empty bookshelves, Garth felt the dreary emptiness of her life. He sniffed dust and old packaging in the air, meals cooked for only one person. He'd been searching to rekindle his own waning passion, but Ruxton didn't appear ever to have had any.
Eduard was due to be executed the following day, and this rich crone would walk away from the BIE termination facility wearing his strong and healthy body. Did she just want to make her harried, lonely life last longer? To what purpose?
She led Garth into a small sitting room, gestured toward a faded chair. “I have defensive systems, so don't try anything stupid.”
Garth clasped his hands in his lap to keep them from twitching. “Madame Ruxton, I need your body.” Then he told her the story he had concocted, as true as he could make it, laced with lies when necessary, distorting facts when appropriate. Because of the embarrassment and the sensitive nature of the case, and because he was a famous “panoramic experience artist,” he didn't want anybody to know about the switch. He feared his reputation could be ruined.
It sounded good. Eduard would have been proud.
As was quite apparent from her decor, Ruxton knew nothing about the art scene and had never heard of him. “But I too have a bit of a score to settle with Eduard,” she said in a raspy voice. “I could have had his body years ago, when he underwent major surgery for me. Unfortunately, he did not die when it would have been most convenient.”
Garth heaved several deep breaths. “You have already had your revenge, Madame Ruxton. The whole world saw you win the auction, Eduard himself saw it—and I . . . would rather we kept our agreement private.” In fact, it was imperative that no one find out. “In addition to the large sum I offer, I will swap you this well-cared-for body, if I can secretly take your place for the switch at the execution tomorrow.”
Ruxton tapped her fingers on the tabletop, scrutinizing him like a gravedigger studying a fresh corpse. Instead of sacrificing most of her assets, she could have a perfectly acceptable new body—Pashnak's was as good as Eduard's, for her purposes—and make a tidy profit on top of it all. Finally, she cocked her eyebrows and nodded appraisingly. “Do I look stupid to you? Done—you've got yourself a deal.”
Without giving her time for second thoughts, Garth transferred the credits into her account. Ruxton stared at the new balance, almost salivating, hardly able to believe her good fortune.
After they hopscotched, she ran her hands over her new cheeks. “It's not as glamorous as the physique I bought, but it'll do . . . considering the profit margin.” Garth looked across at her, seeing Pashnak's drawn, familiar face. He would have to spend the night here, in this apartment, to maintain appearances.
Ruxton glanced again at the balance in her account and grinned. “Now I can afford to stay in a first-class hotel again. Get myself a suite!”
While she grabbed a few of her things, Garth stood with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. The old woman walked away in Pashnak's body with a new spring in her step. She left Garth behind in her drab apartment, counting down the hours until his friend's scheduled execution. Everything had unfolded the way he'd hoped, and now at least Eduard had a chance.
Garth would go to the BIE termination center, masquerading as Madame Ruxton. As the world watched, he and Eduard would supposedly trade bodies. But when the time came, Garth planned to refuse the switch, secretly, leaving an astonished Eduard in his own body. A free man, with a brand-new chance at life.
And Garth would also experience the very last thing on his List.
His own death.
68
Hands clasped in a combative stance, elbows on the beer-stained table, forearms vertical as muscles bulged. Teresa felt the strength in Jennika's sinewy arm, the smooth ebony skin rippling with tendons and hidden strength. She admired her well-toned forearm muscles, the brachioradialis (she remembered the Latin name from Arthur's copy of Gray's Anatomy).
Now she had to use them. She felt like a panther.
Across from her sat the off-duty BIE guard: square jaw, square shoulders, square head. His face flickered with a glint of amusement. Obviously, he didn't consider her a worthy arm-wrestling opponent, and that gave her even more motivation to win.
Teresa needed all the motivation she could get.
After studying public employee files from the Bureau of Incarceration and Executions, she had learned that one of the escort guards—José Meroni, a well-known womanizer—had a passion for arm-wrestling. He often hung out in a small neo-pub and challenged unsuspecting customers, much to the delight of the regulars. The stakes were usually no more than a round of drinks or a handful of credits. Tonight she had something much more substantial in mind.
On the night before Eduard's scheduled upload, Teresa had entered the neo-pub, attempting to recapture her wide-eyed waifish look, despite Jennika's athletic and iron-hard body. She peered around the bar, smelling sour beer and greasy food. Very different from Club Masquerade.
Teresa had recognized the escort guard sitting with his friends, gulping beer from an imitation medieval tankard. Given the man's penchant for
winning, by now he must have had a difficult time finding new arm-wrestling opponents.
She strode across to Meroni, looked down at him, and watched his expression of surprise turn into a leer. Good, that was even better. When she challenged him to a contest, he had let out a guffaw echoed by his cronies. Her expression soured, and she repeated her challenge. “Or are you afraid of me, do you think?”
The others swept their tankards aside, clearing the tabletop. One vacated a chair so Teresa could slide herself across from the surprised José Meroni. She shucked her coat and thumped her elbow on the table, holding up her hand, ready to clasp his in a tight grip.
“Stakes?” he said. “I don't want to take too much of your money, lady.”
“Just a friendly match the first time.” She hoped he would fall into the trap, hoped she could pull it off. Mind, muscles, stamina, strength. Confidence. “Loser buys a round of drinks for your friends.”
The spectators cheered, delighted to be the beneficiaries no matter which contender won.
Teresa and the guard gripped palms, squeezed, tested. She dropped deep inside herself, concentrating, drawing on her inner strength. She had inhabited many bodies before, and could feel the muscles, the potential physical power inside her new form, if she could just release it.
They pressed their hands together, sweating and straining. Her eyes half-closed, she barely registered the look of surprise on Meroni's face. He pressed harder. His face turned red. Teresa countered and pushed, the power building in her arms, giving not a centimeter.
The guard fought back, delving into his own reserves, possibly for the first time. Their elbows ground against the sticky tabletop. Her forearm wavered from vertical as she lost ground. Sweat trickled down her cheek. She drew a deep, cold breath, and resisted with even more strength.
Meroni fought for his pride in front of his friends, but she was fighting for something much more important. She envisioned Eduard, helpless, captured after all this time. He had sacrificed so much for her, for Garth, for himself. Eduard. She pushed harder.
The guard's elbow slipped, and she pushed his forearm toward him. As he began to waver, his dismay increased, his confidence waned. Teresa saw the chink in his armor and pressed harder, gaining leverage. She winked at him.
The back of his fist slammed onto the tabletop, and she released her grip, standing as the spectators tittered nervously. They'd never seen Meroni lose, especially not like this. Teresa flexed her fingers to loosen them. “The gentleman here is buying us all drinks, I believe.” She met the guard's gaze, saw his wounded pride.
“A fluke!” he said, because he didn't know what else to say. He challenged her to a rematch, but his confidence was already crumbling.
So she defeated him again.
“Now's your big chance,” she said, while some of the patrons chuckled, others sat astonished. “The chance to prove yourself.”
Teresa flirted with Meroni, stroking his sweaty cheek with her long fingers. His voice was gruff, on the edge of surly. “What do we do now?”
“Now we swap. Do it again.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Let me prove I can beat you in your body, too.” She didn't want the man for his muscles—she just needed his uniform, his identity, and his access to the termination facility.
José Meroni blinked in surprise, assessing her lean female form. “What'll that do? I can't possibly win if I—”
“Oh, really?” She raised her eyebrows. “I just proved that this female body is strong enough to beat yours. It should be a sure thing for you. Muscles are muscles—see if you can do it yourself.” Teresa continued, as haughty as she could manage. “It's all in the mind, total self-confidence . . . or are you afraid you don't have enough confidence?” She waited a beat. “You can just surrender now, if you like.”
“What are the stakes this time?” he growled.
She gave another sexually charged smile. Rhys had trained her how to do it. “It's just a matter of whether I get to be in the male body first later on tonight, or you.”
The spectators gave appreciative whistles and catcalls, tinged with envy, and that was enough to puff Meroni's confidence again. “Sounds good to me.” He rubbed his sweaty palms together with a whickering sound. The bar attendant brought the round of drinks, and each of the spectators grabbed a fresh glass. No one ventured a toast on Teresa's behalf.
The guard leaned across the table, nostrils flaring. They hopscotched, then placed their elbows on the table again. The spectators hooted, urging Meroni to win back his honor.
But Teresa knew this time would be easy. The guard had more brawn, heavier weight—and inside her already tired body, he would have no idea how to tap her deep reserves of strength. And he had already been beaten, his confidence shattered, his embarrassment crippling him. The first two times, Teresa had been somewhat outmatched, but had still managed to turn the tables on him. For this rematch, Teresa started out with a decided advantage, not just in weight and musculature, but in attitude—and easily trounced him.
Head low, still in a female body, the guard stood up. Leaving his fresh drink unfinished, he grabbed Teresa's arm—his own arm. “Let's get out of here, then. Synch your ID patch with mine.”
“Oh, no hurry for that.” Smiling warmly, Teresa and Meroni sauntered out arm in arm. “We'll be swapping a few more times before the night is done.” The bar patrons hooted or applauded, and the shamed Meroni added a little more strut to his step.
Outside, she walked with him on the night streets, trying to pick up the pace. While still wearing Jennika's shape, she had swallowed a powerful, timed tranquilizer before entering the neo-pub. She hoped they would get to Meroni's place before the drug kicked in. She didn't want to drag him all the way home.
69
The upload chamber looked like an industrial hell—intentionally so, Eduard figured. It made for better broadcasts, a more ominous lesson. The Bureau certainly wouldn't want the public to watch executions in a soothing, pleasant setting, as when Soft Stone had uploaded herself from the Falling Leaves library.
Two restraint chairs were bolted to the floor at the center of a room lined with metal plating. Obvious rivets looked like bullets stitching the steel wall sheets together. Cables and electrodes stretched like squid tentacles from consoles that occupied one full corner. Like something out of a mad scientist's lab, the left chair was rigged with conduits that led directly into the computer/ organic matrix.
“What is this, BIE budget cuts?” Eduard said.
The guards, ignoring Eduard's wisecrack, directed him toward the second restraint chair, the one without direct COM connections. Before long, his mind would be dragged over into the auction-winner's body in the other seat.
A few interested spectators already clustered behind a transparent wall, peering at him like visitors to an aquarium. “The better to see you with, my dear,” Eduard said. He yanked his arm away from the escort guards and shuffled to the indicated chair without being told twice.
The bristling glassy camera lenses of a holocapture apparatus looked like the compound eye of an insect. COMnews would transmit the spectacle onto public channels. Only a few privileged Beetles, guards, and enforcement personnel would be allowed to watch his upload live and personal. And of course the ghoulish old Madame Ruxton—who had spent much of her wealth to buy the body right out from under him—got a ringside seat.
He wondered if Daragon would have the guts to come and watch, or if he would wallow in guilt and stay hidden until it was all over. Eduard couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to see his former friend.
In the corridor behind the transparent screen he noticed one burly, squarish escort guard paying particular attention to him, like a hyena. Eduard made a twisted face at him, and the blocky guard turned away with an expression of shock and surprising dismay.
A booming voice poured from the speakers as his sentence was read aloud. The narrator, a professional dramatist, spoke with grim authority. The world was watching. “
Eduard Swan, you have been convicted of the murder of Mordecai Ob, Chief of the Bureau of Tracing and Locations.”
A looming PR hologram of Ob shimmered in the air like an accusing ghost, looking brave and handsome and paternal. They had used one of the smiling press images from Garth's FRUSTRATION debut exhibition.
Eduard saw only the form he had worn so many times, the physique he had kept healthy while the Chief wasted his borrowed body on drugs. At least, he had prevented the similar destruction of who knew how many future physical trainers. Eduard's would-be replacement, Candace Chu, would never know that he had saved her life.
Unfortunately, he had mucked everything else up.
By stopping to see Garth one last time, by letting himself be talked into trading bodies just long enough to say goodbye to Teresa, he had led to his friend's certain death—and then Eduard had wrecked his chance to get away.
Ob's hologram hovered in front of him, silent and accusing, as the mellifluous voice continued from the speakers. “Eduard Swan, you attempted to escape justice and committed numerous other crimes during your flight, any one of which would justify your sentence of upload termination.”
Another string of holographic images paraded in front of him: the blood-flecked face of the slain Artemis, the murdered old man who had been feeding bats from his park bench . . . a rapid succession of faces, bodies he had stolen.
Indignant, Eduard wanted to shout that Daragon's overzealous Beetles had been responsible for most of the death and destruction—but he was cynical enough to know it would do no good. He was supposed to carry all the crimes on his conscience. The Bureau wrote its own history, and COM promulgated it.
“You will, therefore, surrender your life for the greater good of society and in modest reparation for the crimes you have committed. Your strong body will be given to another person in need, and your consciousness will be erased, your mental abilities uploaded into COM, where all minds work together to process data for the benefit of humanity.”
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