Hopscotch

by Kevin J. Anderson

  He quickly transferred the credits directly from Garth’s card onto his own. His massive ham-hands touched Garth’s face, thick fingers resting against his temples. They switched, then synched ID patches to legally complete the identity transfer.

  Dizzy and overwhelmed, Garth stood motionless, needing the time to settle into the enormous new body with its heavy burden of flesh. He flexed his pudgy fingers. This physique seemed so clumsy, so unwieldy—like an overloaded truck rather than a sporty hovercar. When he inhaled, his lungs didn’t seem to have enough capacity.

  “This is amazing,” Garth said. “I’ve never felt anything like this before.” The spaces around him seemed closer, smaller. Fascinating. His agility was affected, but not his reflexes. The body itself adapted to balancing the weight.

  The other man, delighted with the resilience of Garth’s slender and healthy body, seemed to burst with energy. He laughed out loud.

  And then bolted.

  Garth couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Inside Garth’s body, the stranger ran harder, crossing the street, ducking under low-flying hovercars, through a disorganized farmer’s market full of fruits and vegetables. Garth realized with a start that they hadn’t arranged a meeting point. “Wait!”

  The man sped away with Garth’s blond, muscular physique, moving nimbly as he dashed down the street. He didn’t know the man’s name; worse, he didn’t know how to find him ever again.

  Puffing and lumbering, Garth tried to pursue the body-snatcher, but his overburdened leg muscles wouldn’t cooperate. Simple movement seemed to require an effort equivalent to that needed for construction machinery, and within moments he was exhausted.

  His face flushed with the effort, Garth staggered to a halt on the next corner. Winded, he tried to get the attention of other pedestrians, but he could not raise his voice.

  Meanwhile, the man wearing Garth’s body fled through a skyscraper doorway and disappeared into a crowded building.

  The body-snatcher sprinted up the escalator stairs. His muscles felt electrified, his body so responsive, his footsteps light, as if he were running in reduced gravity. He pushed his way across the slide tube, deeper into the building complex . . . trying to get away. And succeeding.

  He couldn’t believe the stupid innocence of the artist, but couldn’t let an opportunity like this go to waste. After a lifetime of hormonal imbalances, of enduring extreme obesity, he had never imagined that such a ridiculous chance would simply be thrust into his arms. After a clean transfer, he retained his identity. The patsy had no idea who he was, or how to track him down. The obese man would never go back to his clumsy, worthless form.

  On a higher level, he reached a glass-walled mezzanine that contained a suite of clothes stores. From this vantage he looked down into the street and saw, far below, his lumbering body, unmistakable in the crowd. The guy was hopelessly lost. What a fool!

  He could barely restrain himself. He touched his new body with delight. It had been so easy, so fun. He hadn’t paused to think about what he was doing. He had just run. Now he dashed up a staircase, bounding two steps at a time—and he didn’t even get short of breath!

  A moment later he ran into a stern-eyed man wearing a dark Beetle uniform. Weapons drawn, the BTL Inspector stood directly in his way, blocking his escape.

  “I don’t take kindly to people who hurt my friends,” Daragon said.

  Daragon led the prisoner to where Garth stood hopeless, helpless, and confused on the street. Barely able to move in his overexerted body, Garth just hung his head, enduring Daragon’s disappointment and fury.

  “If I hadn’t already been here, Garth—if I hadn’t been watching you, because Chief Ob wanted to protect his investment—” He raised his voice, letting anger cut like a knife. “You didn’t even know his name? Didn’t check his ID? Didn’t set up an irrevocable exchange clause? No contract whatsoever? That was stupid! Every formal hopscotch must have a time limit assigned and provide an avenue for resolving disputes.”

  Still wearing the enormously overweight body, Garth cringed, as if trying to shrink to a much smaller size. His chins jiggled. “It was only going to be for a few minutes.”

  “Even an artist has to take simple precautions, Garth—whether the swap is for five minutes or five months. Don’t leave yourself so vulnerable. You’re in the real world now, not inside the monastery walls.”

  “I never realized that what I was doing could be so . . . dangerous. I thought I could trust people.” Garth wished he didn’t have to feel so ashamed for making that assumption.

  “You should know better, Garth—especially after what happened to both Eduard and Teresa.” He shook his head, as if disgusted.

  Summoned by Daragon, BTL reinforcements arrived in insectile hovercars. The terrified body-snatcher babbled excuses that no one wanted to hear. Daragon gestured with his weapon, supervising while Garth and the fat man hopscotched back into their own bodies.

  Once returned to his obese home-body, the stranger wept and stammered more explanations, more pleas. After BTL apprehension specialists took the man away, Garth tried to explain what he’d been doing, why he needed to share the experiences and perspectives of other people, but Daragon was unimpressed. Since he could never hopscotch at all, he didn’t know what to make of Garth’s quest to “be” everybody and everything.

  Daragon sighed and took his friend’s arm. “You’ll have to be careful if you plan to hopscotch so often. I can draw up a standard, simple contract template for you.” They stopped by a tree. Seeing the BTL Inspector’s uniform, another pedestrian quickly left a nearby bench and went on his own way.

  “That would be great.” Garth sat on the bench as if all the strength had gone out of him. Daragon remained standing, pacing back and forth in front of him.

  “You didn’t think this through, Garth. What do you know about this stranger you just swapped with? What if he had used that disguise to commit a terrible crime, and you were positively identified? Without legal proof of a swap, you might find yourself convicted.”

  Garth shuddered suddenly, uncontrollably, as he recalled the COM-upload execution he had witnessed in the open-air bazaar. Daragon saw the extreme reaction and felt ashamed. “Okay, I wouldn’t let that happen to you. The Bureau has techniques for picking up residual brain imprints. I was just trying to spook you into being more careful.”

  “I’m spooked, all right, and I . . . appreciate it.” Garth’s smile was forced, but the gratitude in his eyes was real. “First you saved Eduard, and now me. Thank you, Daragon.”

  As Daragon climbed aboard a BTL transport and streaked away, Garth remained seated on the bench. He had a lot of thinking to do. He had learned something about human nature he hadn’t even intended to.

  From now on, he needed to take precautions, especially in wildly unequal exchanges, such as with the obese man. This insight into human nature—and the realization of his own naïveté—enriched Garth even as it saddened him. How could such a miserable person not be tempted to run off?

  As he hurried back to his makeshift studio, he promised himself he would establish rules for working his way through the List. In fact, he needed to find an assistant, someone who could watch over him and attend to the business details of daily life, while handling the stipend Ob gave him.

  When he got home, however, Garth’s first priority was to rush to his datapad. He powered it up and opened new files. For the next two hours, he diligently recorded all his impressions of being in such an enormous body: the sensations, the emotions, other people’s reactions to him.

  Then, feeling triumphant, he crossed off the first item on his List.

  31

  Morning in the mansion, time to exercise again. Another day at work.

  The sheets retracted, and Eduard crawled out. His muscles were unusually sore, and even his bones felt somehow bruised. “I should take better care of my own body,” he said out loud, looking at the walls. Unfortunately, after spending so much time conditioning
Ob’s well-tuned physique, he was daunted by the prospect of exercising his own body.

  Worse, his mouth tasted awful, as if Mordecai Ob had eaten cold squid and garlic before swapping back with him. He rinsed with a strong mouthwash, but the foul flavor lingered. On mornings like this, Eduard gladly traded bodies with the Bureau Chief.

  Out in the conservatory, Ob wore a thick bathrobe and sat on a white wrought-iron chair eating his breakfast. Eduard reported for duty in an Ever-Pressed suit, just in case Ob needed to go into BTL Headquarters. “Have you eaten yet, Eduard? I’m going to need the energy for a long day.”

  “Sorry.” Eduard bent over to the fruit plate and wolfed down some pineapple and bananas.

  “Enough.” The Chief gestured, and the two men hopscotched so they could go about their business. Ob bustled out of the conservatory without saying goodbye, apparently in a hurry to get to work locked in his secluded home office.

  Eduard sat back down in the white garden chair, wishing he could relax and enjoy the remaining breakfast on the plate, but Ob had already eaten his fill, and this body was no longer hungry. He went into the gym to change from Ob’s bathrobe into exercise clothing.

  On his morning run, he paused for a few minutes to talk with Tanu. Ever since he’d borrowed the huge Samoan’s body to use against Rhys, Eduard had tried to draw out the quiet and introspective gardener. From simple snippets of conversation, he discovered that the big man had many deep thoughts. Tanu spent much time in quiet contemplation as he worked among his silent flowers and trees.

  Eduard circled and came to a stop, jogging in place to stay warmed up. “You’ve worked on the estate for a long time, haven’t you?” He panted as he tried to catch his breath.

  “Years,” the gardener said, his typical extensive conversation.

  “So . . . you must see a lot of things going on around here.”

  The Samoan just looked at him with sad, dark eyes, then found the Japanese maple beside him intensely interesting. He plucked one of the small leaves off a branch, but refused to speak what was on his mind.

  With a sigh, Eduard knew he had overstayed his welcome. He jogged in place for a few more moments to build up energy, then ran off again.

  After what the Sharetakers had done to Teresa, Daragon took pleasure in his subtle, inexorable revenge. He had known about the fugitive Robertha Chambers, and Rhys, but the Sharetakers had removed all COM terminals from their enclave, refused to use the computer network, and had therefore effectively blinded the Beetles. So much could have been prevented. . . .

  The Data Hunter Jax would have taken a particular delight in assisting him, but Daragon drew satisfaction from his staged humiliation of Rhys/Robertha. He would not, could not, go against Mordecai Ob’s explicit orders—but the resources of the BTL gave him plenty of alternatives.

  Eduard had already done a marvelous, though brutal, job of exacting revenge on the Sharetaker leader. But that simply wasn’t good enough. Not for Daragon. And not for Teresa . . .

  During his routine meetings with the Bureau Chief, he was often bemused to see Eduard’s familiar features sitting behind the massive desk. Though the younger body was compact and wiry, Ob behaved with the same confidence, took the same dominating stance as when he wore his own form. His forceful personality did not change with his physical appearance.

  Daragon said, “So, I take it everything is satisfactory with Eduard, sir?”

  “He’s adequate, though occasionally careless.” Ob had smiled behind the younger man’s dark eyes. “I think we’ve got it all worked out, though. I depend on swapping with him to keep myself in peak physical condition.”

  “I am glad to know that, sir. There have been times when I doubted you saw any benefits in the swapping process.”

  Ob had laughed at the suggestion. “I have never been fool enough to speak out against hopscotching! There isn’t a single married couple that hasn’t tried it, at least behind bedroom doors, experimenting with each other’s bodies.”

  He brushed his fingers down Eduard’s chest. “Some people go to work in another body, just like your friend here. But not everyone needs to make a game out of it. When simple moral common sense doesn’t work, we try to scare people out of swapping too much. Take slippage, for instance. You realize, of course, that the disease isn’t real?” Ob raised his eyebrows in a very non-Eduard expression.

  The information took Daragon aback. “Slippage doesn’t exist?”

  “Just a well-intentioned fiction that we put into propaganda stories released regularly to COM newsnets. The sinister threat of having your mind detached and floating through space adds just a touch of uncertainty. We can’t prevent body-swapping, but we can certainly make it seem more risky.”

  Daragon remained standing at attention, for once relieved that he was different, unable to hopscotch at will. “I . . . understand, sir.”

  Today, though, the Bureau Chief had decided to work from home, and Daragon quietly embarked on his plan against the Sharetakers. One by one, he selected members of the enclave, people who had refused to help Teresa, who had watched Rhys’s abuse and ignored it. He dug through their pasts, found reasons to discredit or embarrass them. Body and property leases were mysteriously canceled or annulled; some members were arrested for fraud. Severe fines were levied for the most obscure or minor infractions.

  The Sharetakers didn’t know what had hit them. They desperately tried to sell expensive items to recoup credits. With a smile, Daragon input a string of commands that marked those goods as stolen property, thus rendering them ripe for confiscation. Because of his secret identity, Rhys didn’t dare file an official complaint.

  Someday, he would tell Teresa what he had done. But for now, Daragon kept it as his secret.

  Furtive in his mansion, Mordecai Ob locked himself in his study. There would be time to go to BTL Headquarters later. For now . . . inspiration.

  Hibiscus shrubs covered the window glass of his study, obscuring his view with a tangled green curtain. All the privacy he required. He couldn’t let anyone see what he was doing. Not this.

  So far, Daragon had restored some exhilaration to the Bureau Chief’s work, and watching Garth Swan’s passion had reminded him of his early days, before he’d lost the courage and stamina to follow his dream. Ob had been so young and enthusiastic once, so full of creative energy, so driven.

  But those days were long gone, swallowed in cynicism and boredom. He had more money than he knew how to spend. He ran the Bureau of Tracing and Locations, doing a great service by finding fugitives and reuniting families. A man in his position might well dabble in politics, but Ob had no interest in such things. Secondary agendas created more problems than advantages.

  However, as with so many celebrities who had everything they could possibly want, ennui had set in. He had forgotten his drive to be an artist, and he had lost his interest in the Bureau. Mordecai Ob looked for ways to enjoy life again, challenges to face . . . or at least some sort of creative stimulus.

  He had fallen into the trap of Rush-X.

  The potent, illegal drug was distilled from an extract of shellfish found off the Yucatán coast. The precipitate dried to a glistening powder, like crushed pearls, which was then suspended in a glycerin solution, meant to be delivered under the tongue. As part of their job, ruthless BTL investigators had tracked down a major manufacturer of the drug, and the confiscated samples had come to Ob as evidence.

  Rush-X gradually caused a body to disintegrate, scrapping the neurons and causing a condition akin to multiple sclerosis. Despite its known hazards, people paid enormous amounts of money and risked their own health just for the thrills the drug provided: increased energy, euphoria, unbelievable creative inspiration.

  Back then, Mordecai Ob hadn’t understood why.

  Feeling adrift at a time when he had so much of the drug available to him, entrusted to him, Ob—against his better judgment in a moment of intense boredom and indecision—picked up a glasgel capsule of Rush-X. He h
ad never stopped regretting his unrealistic dream of becoming an artist. One dose couldn’t cause significant harm, or so he’d hoped. The drug inventory had already been documented, and all the samples were to be incinerated. No one would question him.

  Before he could change his mind, Ob had placed a tiny capsule of the pearly liquid under his tongue. He broke the quick-dissolving shell and let the drug penetrate the soft sublingual tissues. At first it tasted awful, fishy and spicy, like sushi mixed with cleaning fluid.

  Then the effect hit.

  The experience was amazing. Though he had been bored and depressed, Ob’s mind suddenly opened. He was energized, exhilarated. Everything around him looked colorful, vibrant, inspired! In only a few seconds, the Bureau Chief rediscovered a passion for life.

  Later, with his BTL connections, he was able to get his hands on Rush-X seizures often enough to supply his habit. The contraband drug was destroyed weekly, and Chief Ob could “inspect” the batches scheduled for destruction. He could experience this rush of energy anytime he wanted, anytime he needed particular stamina, or passion for his work.

  But the threat raised itself with a particular horror. Ob had seen dying Rush-X addicts and vowed never to let that happen to his own body, no matter how badly he wanted chemically induced thrills. Then he’d remembered his personal caretaker, and the solution had come to him. . . .

  That had been years ago, and still the glamour and drama of Rush-X had not grown old. It made him remember the way he had felt on his best days as a young artist, trying to draw everything, to capture his vision of the world. No challenge seemed too great.