Hopscotch

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Garth’s mind spun. He found it difficult to think with so much pain clawing at his thoughts. “Even if I do swap with you, it’s still very remote. What exactly do you think I can do for him?”

  The assistant crossed his arms over his chest. “I know you, Garth—when you’re inspired, you can do anything.” Pashnak held out the wadded printout. “Take this. Go track down Madame Ruxton. She’ll be at the execution tomorrow—or you can be in her place, if you make her the right offer.” He smiled deprecatingly. “My own body’s not so great, but it’s strong enough. Ask the old lady if this isn’t better than being good-looking and destitute. She seems to be a greedy bitch.”

  Seeing the wavering, uncertain look on the pallid old face, Pashnak reached down. “Better swap with me now, before I lose my nerve.”

  Instinctively, desperately, Garth hopscotched out of his dying body into the gaunt form of his assistant. He drew a deep, deep breath, filled with wonder at how sweet the bedroom air smelled. Even these lanky arms and legs felt strong, capable of great things.

  From the reverse perspective looking down on the old man in the bed, Garth saw how truly ill he had looked. He immediately changed his mind. “Oh, Pashnak—I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I guess it’s not so terrible,” he said. “I love you, Garth.”

  “I know. I love you, too.” Garth bent down, his world focused on the dying man in front of him. “Forget it. I don’t want to lose you as well as Eduard. This is my problem, and I need to pay the price.”

  He touched the papery skin on the dying man’s temples, but he could not hopscotch. A thin smile curled the assistant’s old lips. “Sorry, Garth. I’m staying here, and you can’t swap back with me unless I cooperate.”

  He remembered seeing young Pashnak standing in front of the Splinters during his graduation ceremony, when the gaunt boy had swapped with Soft Stone, proving his ability. “Pashnak, swap back with me. Now!”

  “No, not unless you’ve got some Scramble. After all these years, I think that’s the first time I ever refused you.” He seemed to think that was funny. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. . . .”

  “Pashnak!”

  Looking up at the ceiling, the assistant said, “Will you read to me? Like you used to? When we were in the monastery?”

  Tears filled Garth’s eyes, and he embraced the man on the bed as gently as he could. “Of course.”

  He rushed off, remembering how they had sat by candlelight, reading Dickens. He stopped in front of the library shelves, searching for the right book, any book. He grabbed David Copperfield, the novel they had been sharing when Pashnak left the Falling Leaves.

  He hurried back, flipping through the pages, searching for the right place, a good scene. “Here’s one.” He walked into the bedroom.

  Where he found Pashnak already dead. The old body lay silent and motionless, eyes closed. One hand was clenched around a knot of sheets.

  Garth’s fingers turned to rubber, and the heavy book slipped with a thump to the floor. Pashnak didn’t flinch or stir.

  Garth cradled him in his arms, anguished. Now, of course, he had a thousand things to say. But it was too late.

  He, himself, would have been lying there dead now, if not for Pashnak’s sacrifice. And he’d already had more than his fill of useless sacrifices. Instead, Garth’s options were now limited to one important thing. He didn’t know how he could ever pull it off, but he was damned well going to try.

  Garth prepared to go rescue Eduard. Somehow.

  He shut down everything in his big house and left.

  66

  As green-clad eco-engineers wrestled with robotic digging apparatuses taller than themselves, Teresa leaned against a building, watching and thinking. She didn’t even know what part of the city she was in.

  Arboretum crews shouted to each other, dancing with sycamore saplings as they replanted the greenery along one side of a boulevard. Cranes, pulleys, and mulchers brought down the sprawling old trees, trimmed the branches, processed the wood into aromatic by-products. The boulevard was rapidly transformed as she watched—deadwood removed, new growth added.

  Leaving the loud machinery behind her, Teresa wandered the streets until she found an unoccupied public COM terminal. She searched for news of Eduard, scanning current-events files. He had been forbidden visitors, and even she could not see him.

  COMnews was full of maddeningly slanted reports. Teresa had fled from Precision Chaos, remained out of touch. No doubt if she’d been available, media hounds and scancopters would have demanded interviews about Eduard. Maybe she should have seized the attention, tried to tell the real story and appeal to public sympathy. But she knew their minds were already made up.

  Teresa searched for more information, all the while secretly hoping she would encounter the image of Soft Stone again. But the monk’s ethereal presence made no appearance. Teresa was on her own, again.

  Numb now, punching in code numbers, she tried to contact Garth once more. He at least would help her; together they could find some way to fight for Eduard. They had to think of something together. As a rich and famous artist, maybe he had the power and resources to do something. He had connections, and a vivid imagination.

  But Garth was gone, again. In the past day, over and over, no one had answered her override requests for an urgent communication. At the very least Pashnak should have responded. Signal after signal faded without an answer. Finally, Teresa decided to go there in person.

  She jogged down the streets toward Garth’s mansion. Jennika’s body had great energy reserves, resilient muscles, and a generous lung capacity. She ran, her breaths even and steady, with barely a sweat breaking across her brow.

  When she arrived at Garth’s extravagant house and activated the outside intercom, however, no one came to the door. She pressed her thumb on the speaker button. “Garth! Pashnak! It’s Teresa—oh, let me in! We’ve got to talk.”

  The place looked like a haunted house. For the first time she could remember, Garth wasn’t there for her when she needed him.

  At another COM terminal, she punched in the BTL emergency number, the direct-contact code Daragon had given her long ago. She had to talk to him face-to-face. Instead of seeing Daragon’s image, though, a stern-faced receptionist intercepted her call. “May I help you? This is a private BTL channel.”

  “I need to speak to Inspector Daragon Swan.”

  “Inspector Swan is unavailable. At his own request, he has been placed on administrative leave and is in seclusion.”

  Teresa frowned. If she could just talk to him, plead with him, maybe she could convince him to request a delay. There must be a reasonable doubt. “Oh, perhaps he’ll be available for me—my name is Teresa. I’m sure he’ll speak to me.” If necessary, she would play upon his past feelings for her, but she suspected that wouldn’t help. He was a stranger now.

  “Inspector Swan is unavailable.”

  Frustrated, Teresa stared back at the receptionist’s stony face. “You haven’t even checked. I’m a very close friend of his, and I wouldn’t be calling him if this wasn’t an emergency.”

  In a case surrounded by so much publicity—especially considering the numerous casualties incurred during the hunt, the Beetles would certainly apply the toughest punishment with all due speed. An example had to be made.

  “Inspector Swan is unavailable,” the receptionist repeated.

  “Are you listening to me at all?” Teresa leaned closer to the screen, exasperated.

  “Perhaps you’re the one who hasn’t been listening, ma’am.”

  “When will Inspector Swan be available, do you think?”

  “Not before the upcoming execution. He has many details to attend to. After that, he has a great deal of work to do in consolidating the new Bureau.”

  Teresa disconnected, furious. By then it would be too late.

  She put her hands on her hips, finally galvanized. She’d do it all alone if she had to. It was nev
er too late, and she would never give up. She had wasted so many months searching for her original body. All that time, she could have been fighting within the system, speaking on Eduard’s behalf, working with Garth to use his public platform to expose the injustice.

  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.