Hopscotch

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Pashnak left the exhibition, cradling the drawing as if it were his most prized possession in the world. It was the only sale Garth had made all night.

  “We can stay to help you clean up, Garth,” Teresa offered, as if reluctant to go back to the Sharetakers’ enclave.

  “Sure, why not?” Eduard said. He had plenty of free time between jobs.

  They worked with Garth to sweep the floors and polish the shelves, but he wanted to take the art down himself. Garth had to be out immediately, because he couldn’t afford another day’s rent.

  As they stood at the door and Garth prepared to lock up, they said awkward goodbyes. “Oh, I’m glad we had a chance to talk, the three of us together,” Teresa said. “A consolation for not having big crowds.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” Garth said with a wan smile. Teresa and Eduard went off together down the sidewalk, and he stayed behind in the hollow remains of his exhibition.

  Before he closed the doors, though, two other men appeared, startling him. “Daragon!” Garth’s instinctive uneasiness at seeing the BTL uniform changed to delight. “Oh, look at you, so professional. I’m glad you could come! You, uh, missed the big crowd.”

  Daragon smiled knowingly at him. “There were no crowds, Garth—but I did bring my boss, Bureau Chief Ob. He wanted to see your exhibition.”

  He introduced the well-muscled man beside him, who wore a precisely tailored business suit; his chestnut hair was neatly combed, his olive-brown eyes intense with interest. “You won’t remember me, Garth, but I saw your work in the bazaar.”

  Garth nodded, shaking the Bureau Chief’s hand. “I remember. But you were wearing a different body then, weren’t you?” He recalled a smaller, dark-haired man with sunken eyes and a bushy mustache.

  “Ah, that was my personal trainer’s body.”

  Ob looked troubled for a moment, but Garth didn’t notice, saying quickly, “You told me I had the right amount of enthusiasm, but that I needed more practice. You even knew who I was.”

  “I was curious about Daragon’s friends.” Ob began to stroll through the artwork on display. “As I said, when I was younger I dreamed of becoming an artist, but I never had the nerve to slog through all the pitfalls. In a way, you’ve got the balls to do what I couldn’t.”

  Garth hovered beside the Bureau Chief as he bent close to the three aligned portraits of Teresa’s various faces. “And what is that?”

  “You were willing to make sacrifices for your dream, young man. I never had the heart to suffer through the ‘starving artist’ uncertainty.” Ob’s voice sounded somewhat wistful. “I can see a great deal of improvement here, Garth. Hmmm, very interesting. Now you’re making me regret my decision.”

  Daragon interrupted him. “Sir, I think you made the right choice. Look at how much you’ve done with the Bureau, all the important work.”

  “Not a valid comparison, Daragon,” Ob said. “I’m talking about heart, not logic.”

  Garth led them to some of his other works, feeling oddly inadequate. “I’m not exactly starving. . . .”

  “Yet.” The Bureau Chief pursed his lips appreciatively at a crystal-sharp pen-and-ink drawing of the coffee vendor surrounded by rough charcoal blurs of customers. “I’ve had Daragon investigate a bit. I know you quit your job as an industrial painter, and according to COM records as of five minutes ago, you made only one very small sale all night.”

  Garth flushed. “I’ll get by, somehow. I get help from my friends.”

  Ob placed his hands on Garth’s shoulders in a magnanimous gesture. “I think we can do better than that. In my position, as you might guess, I am in possession of considerable wealth—but my BTL duties give me little chance to enjoy it. That seems . . . offensively worthless, in a way. I’ve been thinking that perhaps I can do some small amount of cultural good if I make it possible for an artist to do better work.”

  Daragon’s face glowed with pleasure. Garth looked from the Bureau Chief to the artworks on display. “Are you going to buy one of my paintings?”

  “I am going to offer you a personal grant, young man. Call it a stipend, enough to let you pursue your dreams for a year, if you live frugally.”

  “The Splinters taught us how to be frugal, sir,” Daragon said quickly.

  Garth didn’t know what to say. The Chief of the BTL wanted to give him money so he could keep working on his art? “You want to be my . . . patron?” It sounded so old-fashioned.

  “I expect you to learn things, expand your horizons, and apply everything to the betterment of your artwork.” His olive-brown eyes twinkled. “In my rather large home, I have plenty of wall space to hang your best work, should you ever wish to loan it to me.”

  Garth felt weak. He wanted to hug Daragon, or Mordecai Ob, but he restrained himself. “This is incredible!”

  The Bureau Chief looked smugly pleased with his unexpected generosity. “I just wish someone had done the same for me, back when I was at the fork in my career path.” He looked over at the uniformed young Inspector beside him. “Daragon will be watching you for me, Garth. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “Sir, you’ve just given me all the inspiration I could possibly need.”

  18

  Along with three believers, Teresa took a random assortment of odds and ends to sell, donated items Rhys didn’t want to keep (since sentimental objects had no value to the overall community). By liquidating personal items, the Sharetakers could raise cash for the construction materials the enclave needed. Teresa wished she’d had a bit more of her own to sacrifice when she’d joined, but the Splinter monks had provided no luxuries.

  She and her companions staked out their usual street corner and spread their wares on blankets and tables. “See these fine necklaces! Beautiful, don’t you think?” Teresa lifted one of the prismatic chains to reflect the sunlight. “Good prices here! Grooming kits, collectible dolls, paperweights.” She scanned the assortment. “Remote uplinks, personal music libraries, handmade scarves!”

  Shoppers, tourists, and businesspeople flowed by, studiously ignoring them.

  Teresa raised a pudgy hand to shade her eyes. She wasn’t wearing her home-body today—in fact, she hadn’t even seen her slender, auburn-haired physique for some time. Now frizzy yellow hair wafted around her eyes, and her plump limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. Since Rhys had sent her out to proselytize, she didn’t need strong muscles.

  Teresa took her turn speaking to passersby, telling about their beliefs, about the warm feeling of acceptance and community. As she spoke the words, it felt good to reassure and remind herself. She was proud to be among the Sharetakers. It was the best thing that had ever happened to her. If only other people could open their eyes and their minds, but it was so hard to get the message across. Wasn’t anyone else searching for a meaning to life, as she had been? Had they already found their answers, or did they not care about the questions in the first place?

  She smiled at a young man who stopped to pick up a portable tattoo imprinter among their wares. He played with it, then shrugged and walked away without once meeting her eyes or asking the cost.

  Teresa rubbed her heavy arms. Her swollen feet hurt from standing so long. She appreciated the sacrifice this body’s original owner had made, but she hoped she could swap into a healthier body again later, preferably her own.

  The day before, when Teresa had asked to get her home-body back, at least for a little while, Rhys was annoyed. “I find this one more attractive today.” His sharp eyes cut into her heart. “Don’t you want to please me?”

  “But it would still be me inside—”

  “Exactly.” He squeezed her shoulder—hard. “It doesn’t matter. The body means nothing, Teresa. People are interchangeable. Don’t get possessive.” He leaned closer, his breath warm on her face. “Aren’t you glad I still take you as my lover more often than any other man or woman? I like a little variety—so why can’t you wear a different body, if I ask?”

  Now, Teresa h
ad no idea who this plump woman had originally been, or who its owner was wearing today. She thought about going to find Garth again, give him another face to draw in his series of portraits. But Rhys probably wouldn’t approve of her spending time with her artist friend when there was important Sharetaker work to be done.

  Though the commune was a roulette wheel of shifting bodies and interchangeable sex, she had remained Rhys’s special partner, as if he owned her. Teresa understood the pressures he faced in the day-to-day operation of their group. The charismatic leader was the glue that held the Sharetakers together, and he did the work in his head, without COM.

  “Of course, Rhys.”

  By the time Teresa and her companions returned to the togetherments, her back and legs were tired and sore—this body was not accustomed to standing in one spot for most of a day. She looked forward to a few hours of rest.

  But upon entering the togetherments, she came instead upon a disturbing tableau. Two of the newer members faced Rhys, indignant and defiant, while the redheaded leader stood livid, trying not to listen to them.

  “This is a scam!” one female newcomer said. “All you do is exploit people. You take our possessions and make us work the whole day, while you sit back and reap the benefits.”

  “Your Sharetakers aren’t about community and acceptance, Rhys. We share, and you take,” the second one growled. “We’re leaving before you cause us any more damage.”

  The first disgruntled believer looked around, calling out. “Don’t you see what this guy’s doing to you?” She wiped her hands on her pants, as if trying to rid herself of greasy dirt. “Rhys, you’re like a tick feeding on an endless supply of blood.”

  The leader clenched and unclenched his fists. Teresa could see that he was close to the boiling point. Before Rhys could speak, though, Teresa burst out, “How can you say that? We all share here, we all work. When you joined us, you agreed to do the same and—”

  “Some people just can’t handle it, Teresa,” Rhys said, looking in her direction. His voice sounded like rocks rumbling together. “These two came in expecting a free ride, but now we can see they don’t really belong here.”

  “Get them out of here!” one of the other Sharetakers said. “We don’t need anyone who won’t contribute their fair share.”

  A faint smile flickered on Rhys’s face. “They’ve held back from us since the beginning. I checked on their finances—and these two didn’t give everything. They kept a stash in secret COM accounts, hoping we wouldn’t catch on.”

  “That’s a lie!” the male newcomer said. “We have nothing left. We believed your promises and platitudes.”

  Teresa looked at Rhys, growing more and more upset. The Sharetakers based their entire community on trust. She’d given everything she owned, and willingly. It astonished her to think that some of the others might have done less. The gathered believers began to close in on the dissatisfied members.

  “And their work has been sloppy, too.” Rhys spread his arms. “You’ve all seen it. Think of the support wall that collapsed, and the broken window.”

  “We weren’t even assigned to those jobs!” the woman said, her voice shrill.

  Because the Sharetakers changed bodies so often, Teresa wasn’t sure how anyone could tell who had worked which jobs at any particular time. But Rhys would know. He stood high and mighty, basking in the support. When the newcomers had tried to spread their discontent, Rhys turned the tide against them.

  Humiliated, the two disgruntled members marched off. “You can’t take any more from us than you already have, Rhys. We’re leaving—and if the rest of you don’t see what’s going on here, then you’ll just have to deal with the consequences for yourselves.”

  “Get the hell out of here!” someone shouted.

  “Quitters!”

  “At least we still have our self-esteem,” Teresa said. She was angry that these two had unsettled her, had disturbed the peaceful atmosphere of the togetherments.

  After the two protesters slid down a pair of firepoles and ran into the streets with nothing but the clothes on their backs, Rhys stood in the center of his flock. Stepping close to his side, Teresa was proud at how the Sharetakers had supported their leader.

  Teresa followed him as he stalked off, knowing what he wanted, glad to give him a chance to burn some of his nervous energy. Sometimes his intensity frightened her, but it also captivated her. Rhys always knew the best way to handle a situation.

  As he helped her take her clothes off with more impatience than sensuality, he shook his head with a small, superior smile. He studied her large breasts and generous hips, then squeezed her buttocks. “You’re so eager to please, Teresa—so pliable. Like a stupid puppy.”

  “I thought that was what you wanted, Rhys.”

  They made love quickly, mechanically, and Rhys declined to swap with her afterward and do it again in opposite bodies, claiming he was too keyed up.

  When he was finished, he dressed and went back out among the Sharetakers, leaving her to lie there, feeling empty inside. She hoped that he needed her as much as she needed him—but often Teresa felt as if she were getting the lesser end of the deal.

  It took her several days to get her home-body back.

  In the meantime her form had been passed from one person to another to another. When she finally did return to her own set of arms and legs, the female flesh and auburn hair into which she had been born, Teresa spent a long time in front of a mirror, just reacquainting herself.

  But her arms and chest had been bruised and hurt somewhere along the way, and it no longer felt the same. She was not the same person she once had been.

  19

  When Daragon went for his weekly meeting with Mordecai Ob, he wore his trim uniform with pride. Newly commissioned Inspector, Grade I. The two men would discuss pending cases and, frequently, Daragon’s triumphs in having solved difficult investigations, not just through using his “special” skill, but with intuitive brilliance, cleverness, and hard work.

  As he stepped into the ornate underwater office, though, Daragon noticed immediately that his mentor was disturbed and contemplative. Summary stacks, hardcopy memos, and evidence files of investigations-in-progress lay piled around him, covering winking message lights embedded in his desk. Chief Ob sat staring into the gas fireplace, where silent flames forever struggled to consume silica-polymer logs.

  “What’s wrong, sir? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Ob blinked at him in surprise, then he flashed a warm smile. “Do you now have the talent to read into troubled hearts, as well as spotting identities?”

  Daragon stood at attention. “I just try to be perceptive, sir.”

  “Never mind, it has nothing to do with the Bureau.” Ob picked up a printout and scanned it. “Time to get back to work.”

  “Sir, all aspects of your life concern the Bureau—especially if they impact your ability to function here.”

  The man’s muscular shoulders sagged, but his voice had a hint of bemusement. “That sounds like something I would tell my best trainee.”

  Daragon wondered if the Chief was experiencing more doubts about giving up his dreams to become an artist. He had seemed delighted with the philanthropic opportunity to aid Garth—he even had one of Garth’s paintings hanging on his BTL office wall—but occasionally Ob sulked with personal disappointment and regret. “Is it about Garth?” he asked.

  “No . . . no, I’m quite happy with your friend and his ambition.” Using a control on the desktop, the Chief turned the flames down. “I know it probably sounds like a trivial problem, but I’ve recently lost access to my personal caretaker, and I need a replacement. Someone to keep my body in shape while I’m too busy with Bureau work.” He flexed his arm, gripping the bicep with his other hand. “I find that having my body kept fit sharpens my mind, but I don’t have time to do it myself.”

  Daragon’s mind was already working. “What type of person, exactly, are you looking for, sir?”
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  “I won’t entrust my body to just anyone.” Ob folded his big hands in front of him. “I need someone honest and reliable to do my workout for me, while I devote my energy to administering the BTL.”

  Daragon clasped his hands behind his back, standing tall and covering his excitement. This could be a chance to repay the great man for all he had done—and also help Eduard. “I may have just the right person for you, if you’ll let me suggest another one of my friends?”

  Daragon waited in plain sight in the open-air bistro, scanning the street crowd. His Inspector’s uniform seemed to intimidate the customers around him. He pulled up the sleeve of his dark uniform and glanced at his watch. Already twenty minutes late. But then, free-spirited Eduard had never been a punctual sort of person, unless he was meeting a client for a swap.

  He had no idea what body Eduard would be wearing when he came, but Daragon would recognize his old friend by his inner presence. He fixed his gaze on an old man hobbling toward the coffee shop. With his fluttering other-sight, he could make out the colorful core he knew to be Eduard, even without checking his ID patch.

  Daragon waved to signal him over. Eduard approached with exceedingly cautious steps. His back was hunched, and his skin had a rough and leprous appearance. With a heavy sigh, he slumped into the chair as if someone had severed the puppet strings to his arms and legs.

  “Look at you, Eduard.” Daragon shook his head in dismay. “What are you doing to yourself?”

  Eduard waved a swollen-knuckled hand. “Some old guy had a hot date. Limited term. I’ll get my home-body back this evening.”

  When the waiter came over, Daragon ordered a spiced drink, and Eduard asked for herb tea. “This body can’t handle too much caffeine. The digestive system is pretty much shot.”

  “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. How often do you hopscotch? How many times a week?”