Eduard didn’t even bother with his regular exercise rounds. On the way back to his apartment, he took a petty pleasure in stumbling sideways, brushing against a rose hedge and scratching himself along the legs and arms. My, my, wouldn’t that upset Master Ob?
After the Bureau Chief had departed from the mansion, Eduard dashed barefoot through the corridors until he reached the locked private study. The hall windows glared at him like malevolent eyes, and the rooms were filled with shadows, even during the daytime.
But there were no alarms. The feared BTL Chief was strangely lax with security in his own sanctum. A simple dead bolt locked the door, and with a few minor tools and a tiny magnetic device, Eduard was able to let himself in.
When he’d been younger, it had been a game to imitate the Phantoms, playing at how to change his identity, how to slip through locks in order to snatch a meal here and there. These skills were his resources now.
The study door creaked open like the gateway to a haunted house. It wasn’t that Ob had neglected the hinges; no doubt, he’d retained the squeak as insurance against any stealthy approach.
Neatly stacked on a corner of the desk were papers, pictures, and a portfolio of someone named Candace Chu, who was scheduled to report for work as Ob’s new personal caretaker in three days. His own job. “What the hell?” Ob had continued to swap with him every day, complaining about his caretaker’s aches and pains, all the while advertising for a new patsy. Eduard stared at the face in the image, read the interview notice. Identical job description, identical pay; starting date “in the near future.”
A red haze filled his vision, anger strong enough to clear his mind and start working on a plan. Once he got away from here and Ob stopped poisoning his body, Eduard wondered if he could recuperate, or if the damage was already too deep, his muscles and nerves shredded beyond repair.
A quick search revealed one locked desk drawer; Eduard fiddled with the cheap metal tongue, popping it down to find a closed box that wasn’t even well hidden. Inside the black case, nestled in folds of velvet, were four capsules of a whitish pearlescent fluid. A single dose? Skin crawling, Eduard held one glasgel up to the light. He knew what this drug did to a human body, to his body.
He fumbled with the folds of soft cloth, removed all four capsules, and pocketed them. Eduard returned the empty box to the drawer and reset the lock, leaving the office exactly as he had found it. Not a skilled job, but Ob would suspect nothing. Yet. He wouldn’t have to fool the Bureau Chief for long. The man would be back soon enough.
Before he dimmed the lights, Eduard glanced a final time at the file image of Candace Chu. An optimistic young woman, convinced she had landed a dream job. He remembered that feeling. He smiled wryly at her oval face, with its bright eyes and anticipatory smile. “You’ll thank me for this, if you ever learn the truth.”
Then he closed the office door behind him and returned to his own rooms, trying to decide what to do. He wondered if he should contact Daragon, reveal everything to him—but he knew how much Daragon revered Ob. The Bureau Chief would never meekly confess what he had been doing. After all, his three previous personal caretakers had simply vanished from COM. Mordecai Ob was not a man who played by the rules.
Therefore, neither would Eduard.
The boundary between friendship and duty was a blurred line for Daragon.
He sat at the undersea Headquarters, not seeing his caseload summaries. By now he had become a prominent Inspector, and he didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize his future with the BTL. With his ability to see the identity of a fugitive, he had received accolades and commendations, but Daragon’s most coveted reward was just to continue doing his job and doing it well. And to have Bureau Chief Ob proud of him.
On the other hand, Eduard had let him down. Daragon felt as if he himself were to blame, since he had urged Ob to consider his friend for the caretaker job. He had thought Eduard would be perfect for the position, but obviously he’d been wrong. Daragon couldn’t imagine why the young man would slack off under such ideal circumstances. What more could he want?
It deeply bothered him that his friend had turned out to be such a poor employee, so irresponsible. But he should have known—Eduard had always been impulsive, like when he’d stolen the flowers for Teresa. Happy-go-lucky, without a care for the consequences, Eduard never thought twice about breaking the law. Rules had not meant much to him, even when he was young.
Daragon left the computer room and marched down the corridors to the BTL transport depot. Maybe if he talked to Eduard, they could work out some compromise to salvage the situation, though he suspected it was already too late.
In the hovercar pool he used his ID patch to sign out a vehicle. He had to do this on his own, without telling Mordecai Ob. Daragon would take this one last chance for his friend.
Setting his jaw, he flew away from the ocean platform, setting a course for the Bureau Chief’s estate.
Meek and subservient, Eduard came to meet his employer as soon as he returned, tracking him down in his office, before he could discover the missing Rush-X. He lowered his eyes and stood ready to hopscotch, determined that Ob would not realize what Eduard had discovered. Not yet.
This would be the last time. The last time. First, though, Ob would get a taste of his own crimes. A suitable threat, a humiliating revenge—though, as with Madame Ruxton, Eduard had a fluttering sensation that perhaps he was again out of his depth.
Would Ob really just let him go, let him walk away from the mansion with his drug-wracked body? Since Eduard was friends with Inspector Daragon, could Ob risk making him simply disappear, like the other caretakers? Or did the Chief believe he had Daragon so completely indoctrinated that he could do anything with impunity? Eduard felt cold inside.
Ob would make up stories, distort the truth, probably plant evidence—who would believe Eduard’s word over the testimony of the powerful and benevolent Bureau Chief?
Eduard could imagine Daragon’s response if he claimed the young Inspector’s mentor was a deceitful, manipulative bastard who used other humans as receptacles for his own pleasure, regularly ingesting illegal drugs and enjoying addictions at the expense of unwitting host bodies. That the Chief was in all likelihood a murderer himself, disposing of strung-out caretakers before they could reveal his secret . . .
No one would believe it. Not even Daragon. No one else would ever exact justice for himself or for Sandor Perun, Janine Kuritz, and Benjamin Padwa. Unless Eduard did it himself, as he had done with Rhys and the Sharetakers . . .
Already, he had deftly slipped the four pearlescent capsules one at a time into his mouth, tucking them on either side of his tongue. He would have to keep his head down. Luckily, Ob wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
Time to give the man a taste of his own medicine . . .
Now, at Ob’s private office, Eduard strode forward, breathing through his nose, keeping his lips clamped shut, his gaze averted. Completely on guard. He just wanted to swap back and get out of this abuser’s body.
From behind his desk, the sickly-looking form of Eduard stood up. “We have business to discuss, about your performance on my behalf.”
Eduard grunted noncommittally and came closer. He could feel the fragile glasgel starting to dissolve in his mouth. He couldn’t swallow, couldn’t move. He didn’t even know how fast the drug would act, or how large a dose this body could stand.
Ob came around the desk toward him. “I’m afraid I will have no choice but to terminate your employment. Swap with me, and be done with it.”
Why was the man talking now? Why didn’t he swap first and then continue with his lecture? Ob stopped, looking with extreme annoyance at the rosebush scratches on the well-muscled arm and the side of his leg. “You’ve done it again! This is inexcusable.”
Eduard reached forward and grabbed Ob’s temples even as he bit down, shattering all four capsules in his mouth.
The instant before they swapped, he felt a cold,
awful-tasting fire surge into the sensitive tissues in his gums, under his tongue, and through the roof of his mouth. Ob had been doing the same thing to Eduard’s body all along. See how you like it. He felt a lightning storm begin to surge through his mind, through his nerves—
Then his mind was displaced, flicked across the gulf . . . and Eduard found himself in his own aching body again. Back home.
The look of wide-eyed horror on Ob’s face was comical. He swallowed convulsively, then opened his mouth to spit out the fragments of already dissolving glasgel.
Eduard leaned forward, ferocious now. “How do you like the taste, Master Ob? I know what you’ve been doing to me, but this time it’s your own body being damaged. Four capsules should be just about enough to make my point. Enjoy the sensation.”
Ob grabbed at his throat, blinking his eyes, but already his vision glazed. “Four? Rush-X . . . four!” He staggered forward, stretching out his hands. “Swap back!”
Eduard easily sidestepped the disoriented man, steeling himself against pity. “I don’t think so. You deserve some pain for what you’ve put me through.” Eyes blazing, he leaned forward like an avenging angel. “And all your other caretakers, too?”
Eduard had never been so glad to be back in his own body, despite its flaws, despite its weaknesses and its degenerating condition. It was his body.
Ob slumped to the carpeted floor, his fingers clenched in a clawlike grasp. Then his face grew slack and subsided into an idiot grin as drool poured from one side of his mouth. The Bureau Chief’s crotch darkened as he lost bladder control.
With a flash of remorse Eduard wondered if he should call a medical team. During the addiction, his body had developed a tolerance, but Ob’s perfectly tended body was clean. It had acquired no resistance. Eduard didn’t know how bad the Rush-X overdose would be. He took a tentative step toward the COM screen, then looked back at his employer.
His indecision dissolved into disbelief as he watched Mordecai Ob die.
Shock washed all thoughts of justified vengeance from his mind. He’d imagined a suitably nasty poetic justice against the man who had addicted his body to Rush-X, and he’d acted impulsively. Paralysis overtook him as he realized what he had done. Eduard had never meant to murder him.
He would explain that it was an accident, that he had acted out of self-defense. Surely, based on what had happened to the previous caretakers, Ob had intended to make him “disappear” after terminating his employment. Eduard knew it in his bones.
But who would believe him? Even if Tanu the gardener spoke up for him, he still had no proof. He had taken the last of the hidden Rush-X capsules, removing even that evidence.
Ob’s loyal Beetles—including Daragon—would never rest until they captured him. Eduard had killed the vastly powerful leader of the Bureau of Tracing and Locations. In all likelihood, they would never let him make his accusations and besmirch the revered memory of the BTL Chief, patron of the arts. Eduard remembered how the BTL apprehension specialists had gunned down the anti-COM terrorists in the flower market. . . .
Frantic, he looked around, trying to decide what to do. He had to get away.
Just then he heard footsteps in the hall. An identity chime rang through the intercom system as an officer entered the foyer after being recognized by the security systems. “Mr. Ob, it’s Daragon, here for our weekly briefing.” His boots clomped on the floor, approaching the office. “And I’d also like to see Eduard, if that’s all right?”
For a frozen moment, he thought about surrendering to Daragon, his former friend—who was now totally devoted to the BTL. Especially to Mordecai Ob. Eduard would never convince Daragon that his mentor had been a malignant parasite. As the unsuspecting Inspector came down the corridor, Eduard knew he was trapped.
Leaving the still-twitching corpse on the floor, he picked up the desk chair and hurled it through the window masked by hibiscus shrubs. The hole was just large enough for Eduard to get through. He would have to move fast.
Hearing the glass break, Daragon ran down the hall. “Mr. Ob!”
As Eduard climbed to the windowsill and pushed himself through the vines, Daragon burst into the room. Eduard looked over his shoulder, his eyes fearful, frozen for a moment.
Their eyes met. “I’m sorry, Daragon.” Then he dropped to the ground outside.
Daragon noticed the Chief sprawled on the floor. “My God!” He fell to his knees, touched the man’s cheeks, grabbed his shoulders. He saw the drool and smelled the drugs, felt the oily slick perspiration covering the man’s already cooling skin. He felt for a pulse but found none.
“Eduard! What have you done?” He ran to the broken window.
Eduard sprinted across the estate grounds toward the gated exit.
Daragon crawled through the smashed window, ripping his neat uniform. He jerked tangled branches away from his face, scrambled clear, and dropped to the ground.
Hearing the shouts, the huge Samoan gardener hurried toward the outside of the office. Tanu stood there, blocking Daragon’s way. “What’s happened?”
Daragon looked after Eduard. “Not now!”
But Tanu grabbed his arm, clumsily stalling the Inspector. “Tell me! I need to know.”
Daragon yanked himself free. The big gardener moved as if to block him again, but the Inspector ducked under his massive arm. “Damn you, Eduard!”
His former friend dashed through the gate and out into the streets. Eduard ran and ran for his life. . . .
44
Eager to see her friends, Teresa came early to Club Masquerade, arriving even before Garth for a change. She sat in a comfortable floating chair, listening to her turmoil of thoughts. The pain of losing Arthur and his ideas was still fresh, but she determined to turn it into something positive.
She bought a wintergreen-flavored stim-stick and kept an eye on the various entrances. Music throbbed like a jogger’s heartbeat in the background.
The last time they’d met here in the Club, she had told Eduard and Garth about the wonderful things the old man had taught her, but now she needed more from them. Maybe the two men wouldn’t understand her quest to find her original body, but at least they would listen.
An enormously pregnant woman with curly brown hair waddled in. She scanned the faces until her eyes lit upon Teresa’s waifish form. The pregnant woman waved at her, then huffed up a small set of stairs to the raised table where Teresa sat.
“My back hurts.” He pulled one of the chairs out much farther from the table than he actually needed to and struggled to maneuver his body. Slowly, carefully, he sat down. “I asked for this, so I can’t complain. But the . . . unwieldiness is affecting my ability to work.”
“Garth, you look absolutely radiant,” she said with a smile. “Tell me, what does it feel like? Having a baby inside you, another life growing.”
“For one thing, it’s triggered my nesting instincts. I worry about things I never thought of before—and spend as much time cleaning the house as I do creating my art. I don’t know how much of it is biochemical and how much is mental.” He cradled his belly and ran an eye over her delicate form. “You should try it sometime. Or would you rather just swap with me for an hour? As long as you don’t tell anybody. I’ve got a very strict contract with the conception-mother.”
Teresa shook her head quickly. “No . . . I’m done with fast hopscotching, until I can find my own body again.”
He regarded her with curiosity, but respected her choice. When Bernard Rovin’s face appeared on the table filmscreen, Garth ordered a carbonated juice drink, forsaking his usual beer. He placed a hand on his abdomen as a flicker of pain traveled across his face.
Teresa leaned forward in alarm. “Oh, you’re not going to have the baby here, are you?”
“Don’t be melodramatic. It could be just gas.” Garth laughed. “These irregular contractions are coming more frequently, though. I’m due in only a few days.” His juice drink arrived from the dispenser, and he took a long sip.
“You going to name the baby after me, Garth?” the bartender asked from the screen, image grinning.
“It’s a girl, Bernard. Besides, that’s out of my hands. Within a day after delivery I swap back with the conception-mother.”
“It sounds like she’s getting the better end of the deal, don’t you think?” Teresa said.
Rovin’s face changed on the screen, this time speaking with a sharp tone. “Your friend Eduard’s coming through. He’s in a hurry, and he doesn’t look at all good.”
Teresa stood up, scanning the various entrances. She saw the haggard young man dash from the Arabian Nights room into the main bar. His face was drawn, his brow and hair misted with sweat, his dark eyes wide and frightened.
She waved. “Oh, Eduard! Over here!”
He flinched at the sound of his name above the pulsing music, then made eye contact with Teresa. Garth raised his hand in greeting, struggled briefly, then abandoned the effort to get up.
Eduard hunched down and averted his face as he moved through the crowd, but his furtive efforts only attracted more attention. Teresa met him halfway to the table, draped her arm across his shoulder. His clothes were drenched with sweat and smelled rank. Ravenous, he plucked one of Teresa’s wintergreen stim-sticks from a tray. “Can I have this? I really need it.”
He crunched down the stick, and Garth pushed his remaining half-glass of juice toward his friend. “Here, drink this, too. We’ll order another round, and some food. Did you hear that, Bernard?”
“Got it,” said the screen.
“Eduard, what is it? What’s happened?” Teresa asked.
He gulped Garth’s juice, then looked with hunted eyes first at Teresa, then at Garth. “I’m on the run, and I’m desperate. I need help. And money.” He sucked in a deep breath. He looked down at his ID patch with dismay. “I don’t dare use COM. The Beetles would trace any transaction, locate me anytime I try to log in.”
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