Hopscotch

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “But you’re my mother!”

  “From a certain point of view, I suppose. Kind of kinky, isn’t it?” She laughed at him, made him feel silly. “What are you worried about? Incest? That was an old, genetic-based taboo to prevent inbreeding. Nothing to worry about here.” Her voice got huskier. “I’ve never tried anything like this.”

  Daragon stood firm, remembering what Ob had taught him, remembering that he was a BTL Inspector. He couldn’t let this woman dominate the conversation. This was his encounter. He had engineered it, and he could take the lead. “Stop being so immature! You’re supposed to be more of an adult than I am.”

  She laughed at him. The music playing in the background grew louder. People talked and danced, milling about. “Today, someone else has the flesh that gave birth to you, and by now it’s old. But you and I can still get it on, just like two virile young people.”

  “I don’t want to have sex with you, Mother. I want to know about you, and about my father.”

  He could see bright recollections parading behind her retinas. “You might find it surprising, but I do remember the man who was your father—a very special man. We only had a few nights, and I could never find him again. But then, disappearing is what he was good at.”

  She pulled Daragon closer so she could whisper in his ear. Her words came out with a hot breath that smelled of the spicy stim-stick. “Your father’s been alive for over two hundred years, hiding, swapping bodies every so often, staying out of the spotlight. Staying invisible, trying to be immortal.” She chuckled. “But I guess he still liked to get laid every once in a while.”

  Daragon could barely believe what he was hearing. “Are you saying my father was a Phantom?” He remembered Eduard’s long-ago obsession to live forever, learning to avoid detection, teaching himself how to pick locks, how to hide.

  “You’ll never find him. He knows how to vanish, and it’s been years. How long has it been, anyway? How old are you? In fact . . . what did you say your name was?”

  “I’m Daragon. I’m twenty-two.” Bitterness crept into his voice, resentment that his own mother had to ask him such questions. He had looked forward to this moment for such a long time, but his mother was not at all the person he had expected. He had imagined a heartfelt reunion, long conversations, a reconnection. Not this.

  She had managed to maneuver him out onto the dance floor and now tried to sweep him along. “I want to stay young as long as I can—your father taught me that. Keep swapping bodies, keep yourself alive, trade up whenever you can. Is anything wrong with that?” She tried to press close to him again, but now Daragon just wanted to be far away from her.

  “Well, I don’t have that option, Mother. I can’t hopscotch into any other body—I’m an anomaly. I couldn’t swap if my life depended on it.”

  She looked at him with wide eyes. “I’ve never heard of such a thing! But everybody—”

  “Not me. I just have this, nothing more.” He finally pushed her away. “I make do with what you gave me.”

  “Come on, don’t get hung up about it. That was some other body. We can still—”

  But Daragon turned and left Club Masquerade, his illusions shattered.

  21

  Whenever Teresa saw that Rhys was in a surly mood, she did her best to cheer him up. She considered it her duty for the group, and it made her feel warm inside to see the positive effect of her presence on their leader.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t always work.

  Inside the togetherments, Rhys shuffled through hardcopy balance sheets, investment records, and bills. He used a primitive numerical calculator, frowning at each result. Teresa could smell his perspiration in the closeness of the corner where he had gone to think.

  She would have suggested that he just use the facilities available in COM for budgeting, bookkeeping, simple information access, but she knew it would anger him. Rhys wanted none of the “spy terminals” in his sight, though Teresa had never heard of the computer/ organic matrix actively spying on anyone through an access screen. She felt that sometimes Rhys had unrealistic fears and concerns.

  “I will think for myself, no matter how many headaches it causes.”

  Now, she walked up to him slowly, swaying her hips—she was tall and blond today, well tanned, with full lips and long eyelashes. Teresa had made love to him a dozen times in this body, and by now she’d learned what aroused him, how to be flirtatious and seductive. “Can I do anything, Rhys . . . anything at all, to take your mind off your troubles?” She made her voice husky, with a provocative lilt.

  He looked back up at her with a dissecting stare, then a frown. “Why don’t you come back in a more interesting body?” He turned back to his paperwork. “Something I’m not tired of looking at.”

  Stung, Teresa bit her lip. “Of course, Rhys. I’ll try harder.”

  Teresa went deep into the togetherments, wanting to be held and loved. Maybe if she had just married Garth or Eduard when they’d left the Falling Leaves, they could have had a stable, normal life. But that hadn’t been what she wanted, and it wasn’t really what she wanted now. She kept trying to convince herself that the Sharetakers gave her what she needed, but even that was wearing thin.

  She stopped in front of a petite brunette with a body like a gymnast and convinced her to swap bodies. The brunette was perfectly happy to become a slender blond, glad to do something that Teresa said would please Rhys.

  When she returned to where Rhys was working, he had put away his paperwork and sat waiting for her. As Teresa stepped into the open chamber, he cracked his knuckles, appraising her body. “That’ll do.” He took her wrist and led her to the thin mattress in the corner.

  Although they still hopscotched sexes occasionally, Rhys preferred his redheaded home-body. Over the past months he had stopped swapping with Teresa at all during lovemaking. He had developed some kind of aversion to having her on top of him in any form, especially if she was larger and stronger and masculine. He wanted to be in control.

  Rhys made her switch into so many different body-types that she made herself dizzy just trying to please him. Eventually, Teresa realized she had completely lost track of her original body. When she first discovered this, she was shocked and alarmed. In all the time she’d been with the Sharetakers, she had worn the form of male workers, female lovers for Rhys, male lovers for other Sharetakers whenever Rhys suggested it. She had taught herself not to wonder anymore.

  When she tried to track down the person wearing her home-body for that day, Teresa had discovered that it was gone. Entirely gone. One of the quietly disgruntled Sharetaker converts, a woman named Jennika, had left the enclave and never returned. She’d run away in Teresa’s body, and nobody knew where she’d gone. Nobody cared.

  But some nights she still woke up wondering who she was, what she was supposed to feel like. Teresa would touch herself, even taking a moment to remind herself whether she was male or female, and feel her heart racing. Whenever possible, she would visit Garth and stare at the detailed sketch he had drawn of her original home-body, memorizing everything about it. She tried to remember what it felt like to be her . . . and then she tried to forget. She would have to wear a stranger’s body for the rest of her life.

  As a girl back in the Falling Leaves, Teresa often lay awake in darkness, surrounded by the peaceful sounds of sleeping companions, quiet snores, the rustle of blankets. Although her eyes were open, she could see only vague forms, nothing clear and definite. Teresa was the only one who stared into the sky and looked at clouds, who pondered the imponderable. “What happens after death? Why are we here? Does what we do matter?”

  Next to her, Garth had breathed heavily, deep in his dreams, while Eduard tossed and turned on the other side of her, restless as usual. Daragon slept on the opposite side of the room. They had all been brought here as infants, like items donated for a white-elephant sale.

  During Garth’s recent art exhibition, she had wanted so much to talk to him and Eduard, to o
pen her heart . . . but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to share her doubts, not even with her two closest friends. Those thoughts hurt too much to express, even to herself.

  Now, in the Sharetakers’ togetherment, feeling sore and badly used in the darkness, Teresa lay awake again. She could still smell Rhys’s sweat, the sour dampness of their sex, the clamminess of the sheets. He had taken all that Teresa offered . . . and she had offered him everything.

  In the enclave, she could hear sounds of quiet laughter, kissing, breathing. Shared pleasure and sweet nothings, simultaneous moans that became a purr. The noises seemed so different from her lovemaking with Rhys. Rigid but quiet, she listened, trying to pinpoint the difference. What had she done wrong?

  Something in her posture must have awakened Rhys. Coming instantly alert, he rolled over to face her and propped himself up on an elbow. Teresa could see his teeth and his eyes in the dimness. Out of the blue, he said, “Do you know where you can get money? The Sharetakers need more to survive.”

  “Rhys, I already gave you everything I had.”

  “Well, that was nothing, or damn close.” He sounded angry with her, but she knew he was just stressed from the enclave’s troubles. “You must know where you can get your hands on more.”

  Her heart pounded. “Everyone has a different situation, Rhys. We come together because we need the community.”

  “Sure, sure. But we’re not a free ride, either. I don’t think you’ve contributed enough to the group.”

  Teresa didn’t manage to cover her astonished gasp. “But I work as hard as any other member! I hardly ever sleep.”

  The leader shook his head. “What about your friend Eduard? He’s got plenty of money. Didn’t you say he just got a fancy new job? Just ask him again—you don’t need to tell him what the credits are for.”

  “I couldn’t do that. Eduard’s my friend, and I couldn’t possibly deceive him, or take advantage—”

  Rhys got up, grabbing his pile of rumpled clothes. “Maybe I’d better leave you alone for the rest of the night so you can think about where your loyalties lie—and who your true friends are.”

  He stalked away. As she huddled in the dark, alone and afraid, Teresa silently answered the question for herself.

  Yes, she knew who her friends were.

  22

  Eduard perspired heavily in another man’s body, but this time it was an exhilarating workout instead of suffering a miserable fever.

  He stood under the overhead lights in the exercise room. Two plate-glass window walls looked out onto well-tended gardens and paths; two walls were floor-to-ceiling mirrors in which he could watch his muscles ripple, see how he exerted himself.

  Mordecai Ob’s strong heart pumped as Eduard exercised, the blood flowing. Warm sweat trickled from his close-cropped chestnut hair. He panted, and fresh air burned in his lungs. According to the clock and his employment contract, he still had another hour of required exercise before his boss would be satisfied with the workout.

  Leaving the weight-training equipment with a clank of metal on metal, Eduard gulped half a bottle of electrolyte water and toweled off. He tugged a sweatshirt over his head, plucking at the cloth where it stuck to his damp skin. He already wore running shorts, good shoes. Ob had taken care of everything. Eduard just had to do the time-consuming work.

  He waved at the sensor, and one of the windows skated aside. He puffed out two breaths like small gunshots, preparing himself, then set off at a fast jog into the fresh air and morning sunshine. . . .

  In the past few weeks, Eduard had settled in at Ob’s expansive estate. The man didn’t want to be friends with him, just business associates. In fact, Eduard rarely saw him except to swap in the early morning, then back again, sometimes in a few hours, sometimes not until the evening, whenever the Chief returned.

  He had his own separate apartment in a wing of the large mansion, all his meals and needs provided. The Bureau Chief didn’t really require much, though he occasionally asked to swap at odd hours, without explaining his mission. Some shady Beetle stuff, Eduard supposed. He really didn’t care, as long as he got his body back at the end of the day. It was part of the job.

  Now, jogging around the estate, Eduard fell into a rhythm along his usual running path, a circuit that encompassed two miles. He ran around hedges, through a quaint shrubbery maze copied from an old English manor house. Some of the stone benches tempted him—rest here!—but he refused to relax. He had his routine. With a sharp grin, he pushed on. This was so easy.

  As the running path wound through the extensive rose garden, Eduard waved at Ob’s huge Samoan gardener, Tanu. The gardener’s upper arms were as wide as most people’s thighs; his skin was dusky, as if impregnated with the dirt in which he always worked. Tanu had a mane of charcoal hair like a sword-and-sorcery barbarian’s, but Eduard knew the bearlike islander was friendly and good-hearted, somewhat shy. Tanu spent his time alone with his flowers and shrubbery, trellises and hedges. He not only talked to the plants, but seemed to listen to them as well.

  As Eduard jogged past, the Samoan raised a hand the size of a boat oar. “I’ll come by and talk to you later!” Eduard called. “We can have iced tea.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, still trying to get a reaction from the Samoan. Not looking where he was going, Eduard stumbled from the path and crashed against one of the rosebushes. A thorn left a long red scratch down his right thigh, but Eduard recovered without missing a beat and lurched back onto the path. He glanced down at the rosebush, but didn’t see any obvious damage.

  “Sorry!” He brushed his legs, then sprinted onward. Another mile to go.

  Eduard brewed a pitcher of iced tea and carried it on a tray with two glasses to the gardener’s shed. The ice cubes tinkled, and beads of condensation sparkled, like the sweat Eduard had recently showered off Ob’s body.

  “Hey, Tanu!” He wandered around to the back of the shed, where he found the big Samoan nestled inside a stand of flame bushes, pruning branches one at a time, as if he knew each one personally. Eduard couldn’t imagine how the gardener had worked his bulky form into such a cramped area without trampling the plants. “Come on, let’s have some tea. It’ll quench your thirst.”

  Tanu looked down at his bushes, reluctant to move. The gardener’s voice was surprisingly rich and gentle coming from such a gigantic chest. “Still lots of plants to work on.”

  “Plants have taken care of themselves for billions of years, Tanu. They can wait ten minutes while you drink some tea.” Eduard set the tray on a bench, poured a tall glass for the gardener, then one for himself.

  Tanu downed the iced tea in a single gulp, as if that were the quickest way for him to return to his bushes. Eduard refilled the glass, just so the gardener wouldn’t have that excuse. He enjoyed his conversations with Tanu, though the dialogue was mostly one-sided.

  He rubbed the red scratch on his leg, which still stung. “How’s that rosebush I stepped on?”

  Tanu had spent as much time tending the plant as if it were a seriously injured child in a hospital emergency room. “Fine.”

  “I’ll be more careful from now on. No problem. I’ve got to pay more attention to where I put my big feet. Mr. Ob’s big feet, actually.” He flashed a quick grin. “Forgive me?”

  Tanu remained expressionless. Finally, after a long moment, he said, “You’re not like the other ones.”

  Eduard raised his eyebrows. “Other ones? You mean Ob’s previous body caretakers?”

  Tanu nodded, then looked longingly back at his flame bushes.

  Eduard couldn’t imagine why anyone would give up such a plum job. “Why did they stop working here? What happened to them?”

  “They’re gone.”

  Eduard finished his own iced tea. This conversation was harder work than two hours of exercise. “Well, I’m here to stay.” He placed the glasses next to the half-empty pitcher. “Thanks for taking the time to chat.”

  He carried the tray back toward the hous
e. The Samoan watched him go, his dark eyes filled with infinite sadness.

  Mordecai Ob returned home at no set schedule, flitting back from BTL Headquarters whenever he felt his day’s work was finished. As soon as the Chief arrived at the estate, he would summon Eduard immediately. He wanted his own body back, wanted to spend the evenings as himself.

  In the foyer Eduard met his employer as Ob set down his documents in a holding area by the door. On him, Eduard’s home-body looked weary and drained, his expression covered with a veil of stress. Impatient, the Chief gestured him forward. “Take your body back. I want to feel refreshed again.”

  After they hopscotched, Ob took a deep breath and smiled, while Eduard experienced disappointment to be in his own form again. The muscles felt lethargic and ragged, without the clean energy that came from a rigorous workout. Ob had left him with a tension headache in the back of his skull.

  Tough day at the office, Eduard thought, rubbing his stiff shoulders.

  The Bureau Chief stood in the foyer, touching himself, taking a bodily inventory. When he discovered the long scratch on his leg, he glowered. “What have you done?” Ob undid his pants and reached under the fabric to feel the minor wound. “What is this?”

  “Just an accident. I scratched it on one of the rosebushes during my morning jog.” After having undergone near-fatal open-heart surgery for Madame Ruxton, Eduard couldn’t summon much sympathy for the ridiculously minor blemish.

  “I don’t want to hear about any more accidents, Eduard.” Ob’s olive-brown eyes blazed.

  Eduard’s muscles seized up in an unconscious panic reaction. He could see why this man was so successful among the Beetles. “Okay, okay—I’m sorry! It’s just a scratch. It’ll heal before you know it.”